[See  p.  82. 

TEN     THOUSAND     GAMBLERS'     HEARTS     ALMOST     STOPPED     WHEN 
THE     TICKER     DID 


THE   PLUNDERERS 


A   NOVEL 


BY 

EDWIN    LEFEVRE 

AUTHOR  OF 

"SAMPSON  ROCK  OF  WALL  STREET" 
"WALL  STREET  STORIES" 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


BOOKS  BY 
EDWIN  LEFEVRE 

THE  PLUNDERERS.     Post  8vo. 
WALL  STREET  STORIES.     Post  8vo. 

SAMPSON  ROCK  OF  WALL  STREET. 
Illustrated.     Post  8vo. 

H.  R.     Illustrated.    Post  8vo. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


THE  PLUNDERERS 


Copyright,  1912,  1914,  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  June,  1916 

E-Q 


Ps* 

n/u 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  PEARLS  OF  THE  PRINCESS  PATRICIA    ....  i 

II.  THE  PANIC  OF  THE  LION 38 

III.  As  PROOFS  OF  HOLY  WRIT 112 

IV.  CHEAP  AT  A  MILLION 198 


3Q9J/I 


THE    PLUNDERERS 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

i 

THE  PEARLS  OF  THE  PRINCESS  PATRICIA 


ON  the  day  before  Christmas  a  man  of  middle 
age,  middle  height,  and  middle  weight,  smooth- 
shaven,  dressed  in  black  and  wearing  black  gloves, 
walked  into  the  business  office  of  the  New  York 
Herald.  He  approached  the  first  "Advertisements" 
window,  looked  at  the  clerk  a  moment,  opened  his 
mouth,  and  said  several  words — at  least,  so  the  clerk 
judged  from  the  motion  of  the  man's  lips. 

"I  didn't  hear  that,  Cap,"  said  the  clerk,  Ralph 
Carroll. 

The  stranger  thereupon  made  another  effort. 

"You'll  have  to  come  again,"  Carroll  told  him, 
kindly,  at  the  same  time  leaning  over  the  counter 
and  presenting  his  left  ear  to  the  voiceless  talker. 
He  heard: 

"How  much  to  print  this  ad  under  Male  Help 
Wanted,  in  big  type,  so  it  will  make  about  two 
inches?" 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

He  handed  a  slip  to  the  clerk,  which  the  clerk  read, 
counting  the  words  from  sheer  force  of  habit : 

WANTED — A  Man  With  St.  Vitus's  Dance  and  an  Introspective 
Turn  of  Mind.  High  Wages  to  Right  Party.  Apply  Saturday 
Morning,  Room  888,  St.  lagq  Building. 

" Four-sixty-four,"  said  the  clerk. 

The  man  raised  his  eyebrows  inquiringly. 

4 'Four  dollars  and  sixty-four  cents/*  repeated 
Carroll. 

The  man  took  out  a  wallet  and  tried  to  pull  out  a 
bank-note,  but  could  not  because  of  his  gloved  hands. 
He  took  off  the  right  glove,  fished  out  one  five-dollar 
bill  and  gave  it  to  the  clerk,  who  handed  him  back 
thirty-six  cents.  As  the  man  took  the  change  the 
clerk  distinctly  noticed  that  he  had  a  big  ivory- 
colored  scar  which  ran  from  the  knuckles  to  the 
wrist  and  disappeared  under  the  cuff.  He  remem 
bered  it  by  reason  of  the  freak  ad  and  the  man's 
voice. 

The  advertisement  appeared  in  the  Herald  on  the 
next  day.  Being  Christmas,  the  one  day  of  non- 
reading  in  America,  few  people  saw  it.  Nevertheless, 
at  nine  on  Saturday  morning,  ten  men  with  spas 
modically  twitching  necks  or  limbs  waited  for  the 
advertiser  to  open  the  door  of  Room  888,  on  which 
they  saw  in  gilt  letters : 

ACME  VIBRATOR  COMPANY 
W.  W.  LOVELL,  Manager 

The  elevator  man  was  heard  to  tell  an  inquirer, 
"Here's  Lovell!"  And  presently  the  voiceless  man, 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

dressed  as  usual  in  black,  with  black  gloves,  stepped 
from  the  elevator,  nodded  to  the  waiting  men  in  the 
hall,  and  opened  the  door  of  888.  At  first  they 
thought  he  was  a  mute,  but  realized  later  that  he 
was  merely  saving  his  bronchial  tubes,  just  as  asking 
men  to  come  Saturday  forenoon — pay-day  and  pay- 
hours — would  save  effort  by  bringing  only  men 
without  employment. 

Lovell  and  the  afflicted  entered.  The  outer  office 
had  half  a  dozen  chairs,  and  a  table,  on  which  were 
some  medical  magazines.  Lovell  scrutinized  the  ten 
applicants  keenly,  and  finally  beckoned  to  a  tall, 
well-built  chap  with  a  blond  mustache,  whose  unfor 
tunate  ailment  was  not  so  extreme  as  the  others,  to 
follow  him  into  the  inner  office.  The  man  did  so. 
There  were  a  desk,  three  chairs,  a  table,  and  a  dozen 
polished-oak  boxes  that  looked  as  though  they  might 
contain  vibrators.  Lovell  closed  the  door,  sat  down 
at  the  desk,  motioned  to  the  blond  man  to  approach,, 
and  whispered: 

"What's  your  name?" 

1 ' Lewis  J.  Wright." 

"Age?" 

"Thirty-six." 

"Working?" 

"Not  steadily." 

"Profession?" 

"Cabinet-maker." 

"Family?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  object  to  traveling?" 

"No;  like  it." 

"We  pay  sixty  dollars  a  week,  all  traveling  and 
living  expenses.  Will  you  go  to  London,  England?" 

3 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"To  do  what?" 

"Nothing!" 

"What?" 

"Nothing!"  again  whispered  the  manager,  very 
earnestly.  He  seemed  anxious  to  convince  Mr. 
Wright  of  his  good  intentions.  "Nothing  at  all! 
Sixty  a  week  and  expenses!" 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Mr.  Lewis  J.  Wright, 
with  an  uneasy  smile.  His  excitement  aggravated 
the  malady  and  his  neck  jerked  and  twitched  almost 
constantly. 

"I  want  a  man  with  St.  Vitus's  dance." 

"That's  me,"  said  L.  J.  Wright,  and  proved  it. 

"And  with  an  introspective  turn,  of  mind.  Under 
stand?" 

"Not  quite,"  confessed  the  cabinet-maker. 

"A  man  who  likes  to  think  about  himself." 

"I  guess  I  can  fill  the  bill  all  right,"  asserted  L.  J. 
Wright,  confidently.  Sixty  a  week,  all  expenses,  and 
a  trip  to  London  began  to  look  very  attractive. 

"Then  you're  engaged."    The  manager  nodded. 

"I  don't  know  yet  what  I'm  to  do,"  ventured 
Wright. 

"Nothing,  I  tell  you." 

"Well,  I'll  do  it,  then!"  And  L.  J.  Wright  smiled 
tentatively;  but  the  manager  of  the  Acme  Vibrator 
Company  looked  at  him  seriously — almost  reprov 
ingly — and  whispered  so  hoarsely  that  Wright  felt 
like  going  after  cough-lozenges  for  him: 

"Listen,  Wright.  You  will  go  to  London  with  a 
letter  to  Dr.  Cephas  W.  Atterbury,  23,  Abbey  Road, 
St.  John's  Wood,  N.  W.  Every  day  you  will  sit 
down  in  a  comfortable  chair  in  the  doctor's  ante 
room,  where  the  patients  wait,  from  nine  to  eleven 

4 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

A.M.  and  five  to  seven  P.M.  You  will  think  of  your 
St.  Vitus's  dance.  For  doing  this  you  will  get  sixty 
dollars  a  week  from  us  and  your  hotel  bill  will  be 
paid  by  the  doctor.  You  may  not  have  to  sail  for  a 
month,  but  your  salary  begins  on  Monday.  Come 
here  every  Saturday  and  get  twenty-five  dollars  on 
account.  When  you  sail  you  will  get  all  that's 
owing  to  you  besides  four  weeks'  salary  in  advance, 
and  a  round-trip  ticket,  first-class." 

"But  if  I  get  stranded  in  London — " 

' '  How  can  you,  with  three  or  four  hundred  dollars 
in  your  pocket,  a  return-trip  ticket,  and  no  need  to 
spend  except  for  clothes,  which  are  very  cheap  there  ? 
Come  next  Saturday,  but  leave  your  name  and 
address  in  case  we  need  you.  Can  we  depend  on 
you?"  He  looked  searchingly  into  the  grayish-blue 
eyes  of  Lewis  J.  Wright,  and  seemed  comforted  when 
Lewis  J.  Wright  answered: 

"Yes.  I'll  go  on  a  minute's  notice."  He  wrote 
his  name  and  address  on  a  slip,  gave  it  to  the  man 
ager,  and  went  out.  Lovell  followed  him  to  the 
outer  office  and,  beckoning  to  the  afflicted  nine  to 
draw  near,  whispered: 

"I've  hired  a  man,  but  I  shall  need  more  soon. 
Write  your  names  and  addresses  and  leave  them 
here.  Don't  come  unless  I  send  for  you,"  and  he 
distributed  printed  blanks  on  which  each  applicant 
wrote  out  his  name,  address,  and  answers  to  the 
questions : 

i — Do  you  object  to  traveling  alone? 
2 — Do  you  object  to  sitting  in  comfortable  chairs? 
3 — Do  you  object  to  people  making  remarks  about  you? 
4 — Do  you  object  to  minding  your  own  business  or  earning 
your  wages? 

5 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

One  of  the  applicants  spoke : 

"Mr.  Lovell,  I'd  like  to  know— " 

Lovell,  however,  cut  him  short  with  a  hoarse  but 
peremptory  "Don't  talk!  Can't  answer!"  pointed 
to  his  throat,  and  disappeared  in  the  inner  office,  the 
door  of  which  he  closed. 

Whereupon  the  disappointed  applicants,  express 
ing  their  feelings  in  a  series  of  heartrending  jerks, 
twitches,  tremors,  and  grimaces,  trooped  out  into 
the  hall.  There  they  cross-examined  Wright  and 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  they  were  to  be  used 
as  living  advertisements  for  the  Acme  Vibrator. 
Doctors  were  employed  to  boom  it  and  the  company 
supplied  dummies  or  "property"  patients. 

II 

To  the  same  clerk  in  the  Herald  office,  a  fortnight 
later,  came  the  same  man  in  black,  and  whispered 
something.  The  clerk  recognized  him,  leaned  over, 
and  asked,  pleasantly: 

"What  is  it  this  time?"  He  had  a  good  memory. 
He  afterward  remembered  thinking  that  the  hoarse 
ness  was  chronic. 

"How  much  for  one  inch  in  Help  Wanted,  Male?" 

"Pica  caps?" 

The  man  nodded  eagerly,  half  a  dozen  times. 

"Two  dollars  and  thirty- two  cents." 

The  stranger,  in  trying  to  take  the  exact  amount 
from  his  pocket,  dropped  a  dime  on  the  floor  and 
had  much  difficulty  in  picking  it  up  by  reason  of  his 
black  gloves.  This  naturally  made  the  clerk  re 
member  about  the  scar,  which  the  man  evidently 
desired  to  conceal.  Carroll,  the  clerk,  alert-minded 

6 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

and  imaginative — as  are  all  American  Celts — caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  scar  between  the  end  of  the  glove 
and  the  beginning  of  the  cuff. 

On  the  next  day,  the  unemployed  males  of  New 
York  read  this  in  the  Herald: 

WANTED — A  Brave  Man.  Wages  One  Hundred  Dollars  a 
Day.  No  Questions  Answered.  Apply  Room  888,  St.  lago 
Building. 

There  are  many  brave  men  in  New  York.  When 
W.  W.  Lovell  stepped  from  the  elevator  at  the  eighth 
floor  he  had  almost  to  force  his  way  through  a  crowd 
of  men  of  all  kinds — brutes  and  dreamers;  sturdy 
animals,  and  boys  with  romance  in  their  eyes; 
fierce-visaged,  roughly  dressed  men,  and  fashionably 
attired  chaps,  with  high-bred,  impassive  faces ;  young 
men  seeking  adventure  and  old  men  seeking  bread. 
Lovell  was  darting  keen  glances  at  the  men.  He  let 
his  gaze  linger  on  a  man  neither  short  nor  tall,  of 
about  forty,  who  suggested  determination  rather 
than  reckless  courage.  He  was  shabby  with  the 
shabbiness  of  a  man  who  not  only  has  worn  the 
clothes  a  long  time,  but  has  slept  in  them.  Lovell 
approached  him  and  whispered: 

"Come  about  Herald  ad?" 

"Yes."    Others  drew  near  and  listened. 

"Are  you  really  brave?"  He  looked  anxiously 
into  the  man's  face.  The  man,  at  the  question  and 
at  the  grins  of  his  fellow-applicants,  turned  a  brick- 
red. 

"Try  me!"  he  answered,  defiantly. 

"Before  all  these  men?"  There  was  a  challenge 
in  the  hoarse  whisper. 

7 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"If  you  want  to,"  answered  the  man,  with  quick 
anger.  He  clenched  his  fists  and  braced  his  body, 
as  for  a  shock. 

"Come  in!"  and  W.  W.  Lovell  opened  the  door  of 
888. 

"I'm  braver  than  that  guy!"  interjected  a  youth, 
extremely  broad-shouldered  and  thick-necked. 

Mr.  Lovell  looked  at  him  coldly,  steadily,  inquis 
itively,  as  though  he  would  read  the  man's  soul.  He 
stared  fully  a  minute  and  a  half  before  the  thick-set 
youngster  dropped  his  gaze,  whereupon  Mr.  Lovell 
pushed  in  the  man  he  had  picked  out,  followed  him, 
and  slammed  the  door  in  the  faces  of  the  others. 
They  tried  the  door-knob  in  vain.  It  was  a  spring 
lock. 

Mr.  Lovell  sat  down  at  his  desk,  motioned  to  the 
man  to  draw  near,  and  said,  sternly: 

"No  questions  answered!" 

"I'll  ask  none." 

Lovell  gazed  at  him  intently.  He  nodded  to  him 
self  with  satisfaction,  and  proceeded,  *  in  a  painful 
whisper: 

"Your  name  is  W.  W.  Lowry." 

The  man  hesitated.  Lovell  frowned  and,  leaning 
forward,  said: 

"One  hundred  dollars  a  day!" 

"My  name,"  said  the  man,  determinedly,  "is  now 
W.  W.  Lowry." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  travelers'  checks 
used  by  the  American  Express  Company?" 

"Yes." 

"Ever  used  any  yourself?" 

"No." 

"Ever  in  Paris?" 

8 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"When  I  was — er — years  ago." 

"How  many  years?" 

"Ten;  no — eleven!"  The  man's  face  twitched. 
Remembrance  was  evidently  not  pleasant. 

"I'll  pay  you  one  thousand  dollars  for  eight  days' 
work  in  Paris." 

"I'll  take  it." 

"Listen  carefully." 

"Go  ahead."    The  man  looked  alert. 

"You  will  get  a  first-class  ticket  from  New  York 
to  Paris  and  return,  and  hotel  coupons  for  ten  days 
in  the  Hotel  Beraud,  in  Paris.  You  will  leave,  in  all 
probability,  on  February  first,  arrive  on  the  eighth. 
On  the  ninth  you  will  go  to  the  American  Express 
office  and  cash  some  of  your  checks.  They  will  serve 
to  identify  you.  Do  it  again  on  February  tenth. 
At  exactly  eleven  minutes  past  eleven  on  the  elev 
enth  you  will  whisper  to  the  mail  clerk:  'It  is  eleven- 
eleven,  to-day  the  eleventh.  Give  me  the  eleven 
letters  for  W.  W.  Lowry.'  If  you  do  not  receive 
eleven  letters,  don't  take  any,  but  return  the  next 
day  at  precisely  the  same  hour,  and  say  exactly  the 
same  words.  What  was  it  I  said  you  should  say  to 
the  correspondence  clerk?" 

"It  is  eleven-eleven,  to-day  the  eleventh.  Give 
me  the  eleven  letters  for  W.  W.  Lowry,"  repeated 
the  man. 

"Right!  When  you  get  the  eleven  letters  you  will 
bring  them  unopened  to  me — here.  Now  go  to  Mrs. 
Brady's  boarding-house,  299  East  Seventy-third 
Street ;  tell  her  you  are  Mr.  Lowry.  Your  room  and 
board  are  paid  for.  Make  it  a  point  to  be  at  the 
2  9 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

house  every  day  at  eleven  in  the  morning  until  after 
luncheon  and  at  six  P.M.  You  must  not  go  out 
evenings  under  any  circumstances.  I'll  allow  you 
eleven  dollars  a  week  for  tobacco  and  will  bring  you 
some  clothes.  Come  back  Wednesday  at  eleven- 
thirty.  Here's  this  week's  eleven  dollars.  That  will 
be  all." 

"That's  all  right,  my  friend;  but—"  began  the 
man. 

Lovell  frowned  and  interrupted  sharply: 

"No  questions  answered." 

"I  wasn't  going  to  ask;  I  was  going  to  remark 
that  you  would  have  to  show  me  that  one  thousand 
dollars  for  the  week's  work." 

"Next  Wednesday  I'll  take  you  to  the  American 
Express  Company.  I'll  give  you  one  thousand  dol 
lars  and  you  will  buy  the  checks  yourself  and  sign 
them.  I'll  keep  them  until  sailing-day  and  I'll  give 
them  to  you  on  the  steamer.  Forging,"  he  went  on 
with  a  sneer,  "is  signing  another  man's  name  with 
intent  to  defraud.  You  will  sign  your  own  name — 
your  own  signature — on  travelers'  checks  that  you 
yourself  have  paid  for.  See?  A  thousand  dollars 
for  asking  for  eleven  letters  and  bringing  them  to 
me,  unopened,  is  good  graft,  friend.  If  you  make 
good  I'll  keep  you  busy." 

"You  are  on!"  said  W.  W.  Lowry. 

"No  drinking.  Above  all  things,  no  talking!  I 
may  be  crazy,  my  friend;  but  what  would  you  be  if 
you  gave  up  a  job  worth  a  thousand  dollars  a  week 
and  all  expenses  paid?  Remember  our  motto:  No 
questions  answered!" 

"Damned  good  rule!"  agreed  W.  W.  Lowry,  with 
conviction. 

10 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

' '  Look  out  for  reporters  and  for  men  who  say  they 
are  reporters!"  warned  W.  W.  Lovell.  "When  you 
go  out,  close  the  door  quickly  behind  you  and  hang 
this  sign  on  the  door-knob.  I  don't  want  to  see 
anybody." 

W.  W.  Lowry  obeyed.    The  sign  said: 


POSITION 

FILLED 

III 


A  particularly  beautiful  limousine  stopped  before 
the  door  of  Welch,  Boon  &  Shaw,  the  renowned 
jewelers,  on  Fifth  Avenue.  There  alighted  from  it, 
on  this  cold  but  bright  January  day,  a  tall,  well- 
built  man,  erect,  square-shouldered,  head  held  high. 
He  wore  a  fur-lined  overcoat  with  a  beautiful  mink 
collar,  and  a  mink  cap.  He  was  one  of  those  blond- 
mustached,  ruddy-complexioned,  daily-cold-plunge 
British  officers  you  sometimes  see  in  Ottawa.  He 
walked  quickly  into  the  shop  and  spoke  to  the  first 
clerk  he  saw. 

"Where's  the  proprietor?" 

"Who?" 

"The  proprietor  of  the  shop!"  He  spoke  with  a 
pronounced  English  accent.  His  eyes  were  gray  and 
cold.  They  looked  a  trifle  close  together,  but  that 
may  have  been  from  the  frown — said  frown  impress 
ing  even  a  casual  observer  as  a  chronic  affair.  His 
appearance,  even  without  the  frown,  was  aristo 
cratic. 

"Do  you  wish,"  said  the  clerk,  politely,  "to  see 
Mr.  Boon  or  Mr.  Shaw?" 

ii 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"I  wish  to  see  the  man  who  owns  this  shop;  the — 
ah — boss,  I  think  you  call  it  here." 

"Well,  Mr.  Boon — "  began  the  clerk,  about  to 
explain. 

"I  don't  care  if  it's  Mr.  Loon  or  Mr.  Coon.  Be 
quick,  please!"  he  said,  peremptorily. 

The  clerk,  now  resenting  the  stranger's  words,  tone, 
manner,  attitude,  nationality,  and  ancestry,  turned 
to  a  floor- walker  person  and  called: 

' '  Mr.  Smith,  this — ahem — gentleman  wishes  to  see 
one  of  the  firm." 

Mr.  Smith  came  forward,  smiling  suavely. 

"You  wish  to  see  one  of  the  firm,  sir?"  He  bowed 
in  advance. 

"Yes.  That's  the  third  time  I've  said  what  I  wish. 
I  have  no  time  to  lose  and  not  much  patience,  either!" 
He  twitched  his  neck  and  twisted  his  head  as  though 
his  collar  were  too  tight.  It  was  a  habit,  and  it  be 
came  more  pronounced  with  his  annoyance.  All  the 
clerks  noticed  it. 

Mr.  Smith  bit  his  lip  and  said,  very  politely: 
"Yes,  sir.  It  happens  that  none  of  them  is  in  at 
present.  If  you  will  tell  me  what  you  wish  to  see 
them  about  I  may  suggest — " 

The  fur-coated  man  turned  on  his  heel,  his  face 
dark  red  with  annoyance,  and  started  to  leave  the 
shop. 

"Good-by,  old  Jerk-Neck!"  muttered  the  offended 
clerk. 

Mr.  Boon  entered  at  that  very  moment. 

"Here's  Mr.  Boon,  our  senior  partner,"  said 
Mr.  Smith,  with  an  irritation  in  his  voice  that  he 
could  not  conceal,  and  that  now  gave  Mr.  Boon 
his  cue. 

12 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

"You  wish  to  see  me?"  Mr.  Boon  asked  it  very 
coldly,  ready  to  say  no. 

"You  have  an  annoying  set  of  clerks  here,"  said 
the  fur-coated  stranger.  "I  wished  to  see  one  of  the 
firm  and — " 

"You  see  him  now,"  interrupted  Mr.  Boon,  letting 
the  words  drop  out  with  an  effect  of  broken  icicles. 
"I  am  Mr.  Boon." 

"My  good  man,  I  came  after  some  pearl  neck 
laces  and  a  few  rings,  and  trinkets.  Do  make  haste ! 
I  am  Colonel  Lowther." 

* '  Indeed !   Well,  what  if  you  are  Colonel  Lowther  ?" 

In  Mr.  Boon's  eyes  was  a  look  that  made  all  the 
clerks  in  the  store  busy  themselves  with  their  own 
affairs.  Explosions  scatter  dangerous  fragments  that 
may  injure  lookers-on.  The  fur-coated  Englishman 
stared  at  the  sizzling  jeweler  in  amazement. 

' '  Damme !"  he  sputtered.  * '  Do  you  mean  to  say — 
Oh — I  see !  Yes !  I  am  the  secretary  of  the  Duke  of 
Connaught.  The  jewels  are  for  his  Royal  Highness." 

The  change  was  instantaneous  and  magical.  They 
all  understood  now,  and  forgave.  There  wasn't  a 
clerk  in  the  store  who  did  not  stare  with  unchecked 
interest  at  the  fur-coated  member  of  the  royal  party, 
concerning  which  the  newspapers  were  printing  col 
umns  and  columns. 

The  man  opened  his  coat,  took  a  card  from  a 
Russia-leather  case,  which  he  gave  to  Mr.  Boon. 

"Colonel  the  Honorable  H.  C.  Lowther,  K.C.B.," 
it  read,  "Private  Secretary  to  H.  R.  H.  the  Duke  of 
Connaught." 

"Colonel  Lowther,"  said  Mr.  Boon,  in  a  voice 
from  which  all  the  icicles  had  melted  and  turned  into 
warm  honey,  "I  regret  exceedingly  that  you  have 

13 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

had  to  wait.    Had  I  known  you  were  here,  or  if  you 
had  only  mentioned  who  you  were— 

"Exactly  so.  Yes!  And  now  I'll  have  a  few  words 
with  you  in  private,  Boon." 

The  colonel  could  not  know  that  Mr.  Boon  was 
not  a  misterless  Bond  Street  tradesman,  but  a  mil 
lionaire  expert  in  gems  and  human  vanity.  So 
Boon  forgave  the  omission  of  "Mr."  and  magnani 
mously  said,  "This  way,  Colonel  Lowther,  please!" 

In  the  office  Mr.  Boon  opened  a  box  of  his  good 
cigars — and  they  were  very  good,  indeed — and  held 
it  toward  the  colonel,  who  took  one  with  his  gloved 
hands,  lit  it  at  the  flame  of  the  match  which  Mr.  Boon 
himself  held  for  him,  and  puffed  away,  with  never  a 
"Thank  you." 

Again  Mr.  Boon  was  magnanimous. 

Colonel  Lowther  wiggled  his  neck  as  if  his  collar 
were  uncomfortably  tight,  and  then  shot  his  head 
forward  with  a  motion  that  made  the  chin  go  up  six 
inches — a  nervous  affliction  that  Mr.  Boon  politely 
ignored  by  looking  exaggeratedly  attentive. 

"His  Royal  Highness  wishes  to  leave  some  remem 
brances  to  gentlemen  he  has  met,  you  know — chair 
men  of  committees  and  presidents  of  clubs,  and 
others  who  have  been  very  nice  to  him.  At  home  he 
would  have  given  them  snuff-boxes  or  cigarette-cases, 
with  his  arms  on  them;  but  there  won't  be  time  to 
engrave  them,  so  he  will  give  scarf-pins."  He 
paused,  puffed  at  his  cigar,  and  cleared  his  neck  of 
the  constricting  collar. 

"I  understand,"  Mr.  Boon  assured  him,  defer 
entially. 

"And  the  duchess  will  give  rings  and — ah— 
lorgnette-chains — trinkets — ah — you  know.  Every- 

U 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

body  in  New  York  has  been  so  kind  to  the  party. 
Ton  my  honor,  Boon,  I  really  think  Americans 
are  keener  for  royalty  than  the  British.  I  do! 
What?" 

"Blood,"  observed  Mr.  Boon,  with  the  impressive 
sententiousness  of  a  man  inventing  a  proverb,  "is 
thicker  than  water!" 

"Eh?  What?  Oh!  I  see!  Yes!  Quite  so!" 

"Our  people,"  pursued  the  encouraged  Mr.  Boon, 
"have  always  thought  a  great  deal  of  the  English — 
er — British  royal  family." 

"Oh,  indeed!  Now,  Boon,  I  didn't  think  you 
showed  great  affection  for  George  III!  What?" 

Mr.  Boon  blushed  to  think  of  Bunker  Hill.  His 
daughter  was  a  D.  A.  R.,  too!  He  hastened  to 
change  the  subject. 

"You  mentioned,"  he  said,  as  though  he  were 
reading  aloud  from  one  of  the  sacred  books,  "some 
pearl  necklaces.  At  least,  I  think  you  did."  He 
put  on  the  tradesman's  listening  look  in  advance. 
It  is  the  look  that  courtiers  assume  when  they  listen 
to  his  Majesty  excitedly  telling  how  once,  on  a 
hunting- trip,  he  almost  dressed  himself. 

' '  Oh  yes !  The  pearls  are  for  the  Princess  Patricia. 
A  necklace  to  cost  not  over  ten  thousand.  You  see, 
the  duke  is  not  one  of  your  Pittsburg  millionaires. 
He's  not  what  you'd  call  rich,  in  America!"  He 
smiled,  democratically,  as  a  man  always  does  when 
he  is  pleased  with  his  own  wit.  Mr.  Boon  smiled 
uncertainly. 

"You  can't,  of  course,"  he  said,  regretfully,  "do 
much  with  ten  thousand  dollars." 

Not  dollars — pounds !    Perhaps  we  may  go  up  to 
fifteen  thousand;   but  his  Highness  would  prefer  to 

15 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

keep  at  about  ten  thousand  pounds.  That's  fifty 
thousand  dollars." 

"I  am  sure  we  can  please  his  Highness,"  said  Mr. 
Boon,  with  impressive  confidence.  There  fleeted 
across  his  mind  the  vision  of  the  tremendous  value 
of  the  advertisement  which  the  royal  patronage 
would  give  him.  The  papers  were  full  of  the  doings 
of  the  distinguished  visitors.  He  himself  on  his  way 
to  the  office  had  been  guilty  of  the  pardonable  curi 
osity  which  the  lower  classes  call  rubber-necking; 
and  he  had  even  discussed — in  common  with  89,999,- 
999  fellow- Americans — the  personal  pulchritude  of 
the  royal  ladies.  Usually  democracy  is  enabled  to 
apologize  to  itself  for  its  undemocratic  interest  in 
feminine  royalty  by  saying,  "She  isn't  at  all  good- 
looking."  That  excuse,  however,  did  not  serve  in 
this  instance.  The  Princess  Patricia  was  the  most 
popular  girl  in  New  York — with  the  classes  because 
she  was  the  princess,  and  with  the  masses  because 
she  was  so  pretty!  And  to  think  of  selling  pearls  to 
her! 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  ecstatically  read  what  the 
papers  would  print  about  the  sale!  He  heard  him 
self  saying  to  Mrs.  Carmpick,  of  Pittsburg:  "This 
necklace  is  handsomer  than  the  one  we  sold  to 
Princess  Patricia!"  He  heard  the  rattle  in  the 
throats  of  Johnson  &  Pierce,  of  J.  Storrs'  Sons,  of 
the  sixteen  partners  of  Goffony's,  dying  from  apo 
plexy  superinduced  by  envy,  or  from  starvation  fol 
lowing  the  loss  of  all  the  swell  customers! 

"Ah,  you  realize,  of  course,  Boon,  that  his  Royal 
Highness 's  patronage  is  worth  many  thousands  to 
your  firm.  What?" 

The  colonel's  eyes,  Mr.  Boon  thought,  were  cold 

16 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

and  greedy,  as  befitted  a  common  grafter.  Mr.  Boon 
resented  this,  having  himself  been  caught  red-handed 
getting  something  for  nothing.  If  he  had  to  pay  a 
commission — 

"We  appreciate  the  honor,  of  course,  Colonel 
Lowther,"  he  said,  deferentially  —  and  non-com- 
mittally. 

"Quite  so!  You  ought  to,  considering  how  the 
newspapers  will  mention  your  shop." 

"I  may  suggest,  Colonel  Lowther,  that  our  firm's 
reputation — " 

"I  know  its  reputation.  That's  why  I  am  here" 
— the  colonel's  voice  seemed  colder  than  a  Canadian 
cold  spell — "but  it  is  no  better  than  your  competi 
tors' — Goffony,  Johnson  &  Pierce,  or  J.  Storrs'  Sons. 
I  figured  that  the  duke's  patronage  should  be  worth 
thousands  to  Welch,  Boon  &  Shaw;  so  you  must 
make  me  a  special  price." 

"We  have  but  one—" 

"I've  heard  all  that,  Boon,"  the  colonel  inter 
rupted,  angrily.  "If  you  are  going  to  talk  like  a 
bally  ass  I'll  waste  no  more  time  here.  Bring  in  the 
pearls.  I  can't  take  over  a  half -hour  to  this." 

Mr.  Boon's  hard  sense  and  knowledge  of  adver 
tising  values  triumphed  over  his  injured  dignity. 
He  excused  himself,  and  presently  returned  with  a 
tray  full  of  pearl  necklaces. 

"I  say,  Boon,  on  second  thought,  you  must  not 
reduce  your  prices.  It's  a  bad  principle." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  agreed  Boon,  cordially. 

11  Therefore,  my  good  fellow,  name  me  one  price — 
the  lowest  possible  after  considering  how  much  the 
duke's  patronage  is  worth  to  your  house.  The  very 
lowest!  Put  it  in  plain  figures  on  new  price-tags. 

17 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

The  duke  is  accustomed  to  the  prices  across  the 
pond,  you  know;  so  don't  frighten  him.  Now  that 
one?" 

He  picked  up  at  once  the  most  beautiful  necklace 
—and  also  the  most  valuable,  though  by  no  means 
the  most  showy.  Mr.  Boon's  respect  jumped.  He 
looked  at  the  colonel,  whose  neck  and  head  were 
twitching  and  twisting  violently. 

"This  one—"  he  began.  The  colonel  interrupted 
him: 

"Now,  Boon,  think  carefully — the  very  lowest 
price,"  he  said,  sternly.  "If  you  name  a  really  rea 
sonable  figure  I'll  pledge  you  my  word  to  recommend 
its  purchase  and  not  visit  the  other  shops.  Take 
your  time!" 

Thus  placed  on  the  rack,  Mr.  Boon  figured  and  cut 
and  restored  and  reduced  again  until  he  was  angry 
at  the  torturer  and  at  the  opportunity  for  a  glorious 
advertisement.  Finally  he  said,  vindictively: 

"This  I'll  sell  for  sixty-five  thousand  dollars!" 
Immediately  he  regretted  it.  Perhaps  he  was  over 
estimating  the  advertising  value  of  the  Princess 
Patricia's  beautiful  neck  to  exhibit  his  pearls  on. 
The  price  was  exactly  thirty-five  thousand  dollars 
less  than  he  had  expected  to  get  for  it  during  the 
next  steel  boom. 

"Oh,  come  now,  I  say,"  remonstrated  Colonel 
Lowther,  impatiently.  "That's  thirteen  thousand 
pounds.  It's  too  much,  you  know." 

"Colonel  Lowther,"  said  Boon,  pale  but  deter 
mined,  "I  am  losing  considerable  money  on  this, 
which  I  am  charging  to  advertising  account  and  may 
never  get  back.  If  the  price  is  not  satisfactory,  I'm 
sorry;  and  I  can  only  suggest  that  you'd  better  go 

18 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

to  the  other  firms  you've  mentioned.  They  are  all," 
he  finished  quietly,  "very  good  firms.'* 

Colonel  Lowther,  who  had  not  taken  his  keen  eyes 
off  the  jeweler's  face  during  the  speech,  appeared  im 
pressed  by  Mr.  Boon's  earnestness.  His  neck  jerked 
spasmodically  half  a  dozen  times  before  he  said: 

"I  believe  you.  I'll  take  it.  But  first  mark  it— 
in  pounds;  thirteen  thousand  pounds."  And  he 
looked  on,  eagle-eyed,  while  Mr.  Boon  himself  wrote 
out  a  new  price-tag.  Evidently  he  would  take  no 
chances  with  sleight-of-hand  substitutions.  "Put  it 
here,"  he  said,  "beside  me." 

It  made  Mr.  Boon  say,  half  angry,  half  amused: 
"We  won't  change  it  for  an  imitation  string.  We 
are  really  a  reputable  firm,  Colonel  Lowther." 

"Oh!  Ah!  Really,  I— ah!"  stammered  the  colo 
nel,  "I  wasn't  thinking  of  such  a  thing!"  He  looked 
so  absurdly  guilty,  however,  that  Mr.  Boon  forgave 
him.  "I  think  you'd  better  show  me  others — ah ! — 
cheaper,  you  know,  in  case  the  duke  should  not  wish 
to  go  above  ten  thousand  pounds.  Say,  that  one — 
and  this! — and  this!" 

He  had  selected  the  three  next  best;  but  Boon  fig 
ured  very  closely  and  in  all  instances  named  a  price 
below  cost :  fifty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  dollars, 
fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  forty-five  thousand  dollars. 

"Put  them  here  also  with  the  first  one,"  said 
Colonel  Lowther. 

"Don't  you  wish  us  to  put  them  in  boxes?"  asked 
Mr.  Boon. 

"Ah — ah! — I  say,  bring  the  boxes  in  and  I'll  put 
them  in.  We'll  do  it  more  quickly,"  he  finished, 
lamely. 

There  flashed  across  Mr.  Boon's  mind  the  pos- 

19 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

sibility  of  crookedness.  Colonel  Lowther  did  not 
trust  them — perhaps  because  he  hoped  to  avert 
suspicions  by  that  same  attitude  of  distrust!  Mr. 
Boon  determined  to  watch  closely.  He  asked  a  clerk 
to  bring  some  cases  for  the  necklaces. 

"You  fix  them,  Boon,"  said  Colonel  Lowther, 
who  was  watching  the  jeweler's  hands  as  children 
watch  the  hands  of  a  prestidigitator. 

It  actually  eased  Boon's  mind  to  be  taken  for  a 
crook.  He  arranged  the  necklaces,  each  in  its  own 
Russia-leather  case,  and  then  gratefully  helped 
Colonel  Lowther  to  select  two  dozen  scarf-pins, 
amounting  in  value  to  eighteen  thousand  dollars, 
a  score  of  rings  worth  in  all  a  little  over  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars,  and  a  few  lorgnette-chains  and 
other  trinkets.  Once  all  these  were  duly  price- 
tagged,  packed,  and  placed  beside  the  necklaces, 
Colonel  Lowther,  after  a  series  of  mild  cervical  con 
vulsions,  said,  calmly: 

"Now,  Boon,  you  and  I  must  settle  a  personal 
matter.  You  know,  of  course,  the  royal  party  never 
pays  cash." 

"Then,"  said  the  impetuous  Mr.  Boon,  "the  deal 
is  off!" 

"Silly  ass!  The  royal  family  of  England  always 
pays.  You  know  very  well  that  the  jewels  bought 
by  King  George  for  gifts  for  his  coronation  guests 
have  not  been  paid  for  yet.  It's  all  a  matter  of  red 
tape.  The  money  is  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  England ! 
Any  banker  here  would  be  glad  to  guarantee  the 
account — only  that  would  never  do,  of  course.  Now 
you  know  I  can't  take  any  commission.  I've  made 
you  give  me  the  lowest  prices  for  the  duke,  haven't 
I?  What?" 

20 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

"Yes,  you  have;   and  therefore  I  can't— 

''If  I  were  a  bally  Russian  I'd  have  made  you 
name  a  price  twice  the  usual  figure  and  I'd  have 
taken  the  difference  as  a  commission.  It's  what  you 
Americans  call  graft,  I  believe.  What?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Boon,  coldly,  disgusted  with  the 
venal  aristocracy,  "we'd  never  have  done  such  a — 

"Tut,  tut!  It's  done  everywhere;  but  not  to 
me!"  Colonel  Lowther  said,  so  sternly  that  Mr.  Boon 
considered  himself  accused  of  unnamed  crimes. 
He  resented  this,  but,  being  unable  to  fix  the  exact 
accusation,  contented  himself  with  remarking,  diplo 
matically  : 

"Of  course  not!    But  at  the  same  time— 

"Yes,  yes,"  rudely  broke  in  the  colonel,  with  a 
silencing  wave  of  his  gloved  hand.  "Now  I  can 
myself  pay  you  in  cash  for  whatever  the  duke  buys 
— say,  up  to  twenty  thousand  or  twenty-five  thou 
sand  pounds.  For  advancing  this  money,  which  will 
not  be  paid  to  me  for  months,  I  ask  you  to  allow  me 
a  half-year's  interest.  That,"  finished  Colonel 
Lowther,  impressively,  "is  banking.  What?" 

"At  what  rate?" 

"Oh,  eight  or  ten  per  cent." 

"Impossible!" 

"Then,  Mr.  Welch,  Boon,  or  whatever  your  name 
is,  I  wish  you  a  very  good  morning!" 

"But  we'll  allow  you  interest  at  the  rate  of  six 
per  cent,  a  year." 

"But  I  myself  Have  to  pay  five  for  the  use — ah! — 
that  is — er — "  floundered  the  Englishman.  Mr.  Boon 
perceived  instantly  that  the  colonel  borrowed  the 
money  from  Canadian  bankers  at  five  per  cent,  and 
got  ten  per  cent.  It  was  not  a  bad  scheme  for 

21 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

high-class  aristocratic  graft!  Even  a  jeweler  could 
philosophize  about  wilful  self-delusion,  the  point  of 
view,  custom,  and  so  on.  "Make  it  seven  per  cent. 
What?"* 

Mr.  Boon  could  not  help  admiring  the  persistency 
of  the  Englishman  in  coating  his  graft-pills  with  the 
sugar  of  legitimacy.  Doubtless  the  colonel  had 
really  convinced  himself  this  was  not  graft ! 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Boon,  with  a  smile.  "I'll 
take  three  and  a  half  per  cent,  off  for  cash." 

"But  we  agreed  on  seven!"  remonstrated  the 
Englishman. 

"Well,  three  and  a  half  per  cent,  of  the  whole  is 
the  same  as  six  months  at  seven  per  cent." 

"Oh!"  The  colonel  began  to  figure  in  his  mind. 
His  cervical  contortions,  twitchings,  and  jerkings 
were  painful  to  behold.  Mr.  Boon  thought  it  was  a 
mild  form  of  St.  Vitus's  dance.  It  would  enable  him 
to  recognize  the  colonel  in  a  crowd  of  ten  thousand. 

"Quite  so!  Yes — three  and  a  half  per  cent,  of  the 
total  bill.  It  will  be  at  least  twenty  thousand 
pounds — that's  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Not 
half  bad!  What?" 

"Do  you  mean  your  commission  will  be  one  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars?  I'm  delighted  to  hear  it!" 
Mr.  Boon  was  so  pleased  that  he  jested.  He  would 
play  up  the  royal  patronage  to  the  limit. 

"Oh  no!  I  meant  the  total  amount,  you  know," 
corrected  the  colonel,  earnestly.  He  saw  that  Boon 
was  smiling,  and  gradually  it  dawned  on  him  that  the 
jeweler  was  an  American  humorist.  "Oh!  Ah! 
Yes !  Very  funny !  Quite  so !  I  wish  it  were !  How 
many  millions  would  the  bill  have  to  be  for  the  cash 
discount  to  be  twenty  thousand  pounds?  What? 

22 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

Right-O!  Well,  now  bring  the  pearls  and  the  other 
things  to  the  motor.  I  shall  show  them  to  his  Royal 
Highness  at  once.  I  can  let  you  know  in  a  half -hour 
which  he  will  keep."  And  he  rose. 

"Ah! — er — Colonel,  you  know  we  don't  like  to— 
ah! — there's  over  two  hundred  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  jewels,  worth  four  hundred  thousand  dollars 
in  any  other  place  in  New  York;  and  if  anything 
happened— 

" Nothing  will  happen/'  said  the  colonel,  with 
assurance. 

"And  then,  it  will  take  a  long  time  to  prepare  the 
memorandum  of — ' 

"Why  do  you  need  a  memorandum?"  inquired  the 
colonel,  coldly.  He  looked  as  if  he  began  to  suspect 
that  Mr.  Boon  distrusted  a  member  of  the  suite  of 
his  Royal  Highness,  Prince  Arthur  William  Patrick 
Albert,  KG.,  K.T.,  K.P.,  P.C.,  G.M.B.,  G.3. 
S.L,  G.C.M.G.,  G.C.I.E.,  G.C.V.O.,  Duke  of 
Connaught  and  Strathearn,  Earl  of  Sussex,  Prince 
of  Coburg  and  Gotha,  Governor-General  of  Canada, 
and  potential  customer  of  the  world-renowned  firm 
of  Welch,  Boon  &  Shaw. 

Reading  the  emotions  on  the  colonel's  face  and  not 
desiring  to  offend,  but  at  the  same  time  determined 
not  to  deliver  two  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  goods  to  a  stranger,  who  might  be  the  duke's 
secretary,  but  might  not  be  a  reliable  man  financially, 
for  all  that,  Mr.  Boon  groped  for  an  excuse.  But 
Colonel  Lowther  pursued,  frigidly: 

"Why  should  you  need  a  memorandum  if  you 
yourself  will  bring  the  jewels?  Did  you  think  I 
was  a  bally  clerk  to  sell  your  jewels  for  you?  You 
do  the  talking — and  don't  change  the  prices!" 

23 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

So  profoundly  relieved  as  not  to  resent  the  last 
insult,  Mr.  Boon  smiled  pleasantly  and  said,  "I 
must  take  a  man  to  carry  them." 

"Take  a  regiment  if  you  wish;  but  there's  room 
for  only  three  in  the  motor,"  said  the  Englishman, 
his  neck  twitching  and  twisting  and  jerking  quite 
violently.  Anger  seemed  to  aggravate  his  nervous 
malady.  Wherefore  Mr.  Boon  hastily  gathered  up 
the  packages,  put  them  into  a  jeweler's  strong  valise, 
and  followed  the  colonel,  accompanied  by  Terry 
Donnelly,  the  store's  private  policeman,  who  carried 
the  precious  satchel  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other — 
in  his  overcoat  pocket — an  automatic  pistol  of  the 
latest  model. 

One  of  the  clerks  must  have  told  of  the  affair,  for 
there  was  an  eager  crowd  on  the  sidewalk.  They 
had  heard  that  the  Duke  of  Connaught's  secretary 
was  in  the  store,  buying  diamonds.  By  the  time 
it  had  passed  seven  mouths  it  was  the  duke  himself. 
Mr.  Boon  heard:  "There  he  comes!"  and,  "Is  the 
princess  with  him?"  and,  "Which  is  the  duke?" 
And  he  had  pleasant  visions  of  free  reading-notices 
and  renewed  popularity  among  the  ultra-fashionable. 
One  of  the  traffic  squad  was  trying  to  make  the 
crowd  move  on — in  vain. 

The  colonel  good-naturedly  forced  his  way  through 
the  mob  to  the  motor,  followed  by  the  jeweler  and 
the  store  policeman,  who  saw  on  the  door  of  the 
limousine  the  letters  "W.  R."  And  both  of  them 
concluded  that  this  stood  for  the  well-known  initials 
of  the  duke's  host. 

A  short  woman,  with  red  hair  and  a  self-assertive 
bust,  stared  boldly  at  the  colonel  and  said,  "He  don't 
look  like  his  pictures." 

24 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

"Say,  are  you  the  duke?"  asked  a  messenger- 
boy. 

However,  the  colonel  merely  said  "Home!"  and 
entered  the  motor,  followed  by  Mr.  Boon  and  T. 
Donnelly.  The  store  footman  closed  the  door  as  if  it 
were  made  of  priceless  cut-glass.  The  traffic  police 
man  touched  his  cap  and  the  motor  went  up  the 
Avenue. 

The  colonel  picked  up  a  newspaper  from  the  seat 
and  turned  to  Mr.  Boon. 

"See!"  he  said,  "our  pictures.  Your  reporters 
are — ah! — very  enterprising  and  clever.  But  the 
photographers  are  worse !"  He  laughed  and  went  on : 
"The  pictures  don't  look  like  me,  d'ye  think?" 

"I  recognize  the  coat  and  the  fur  cap,"  laughed 
Mr.  Boon. 

"Oh,  do  you?"  said  the  colonel,  seriously.  He 
looked  at  it  and  said:  "But  it  might  be  my  other 
fur  cap,  you  know.  What?"  He  looked  challeng- 
ingly  at  the  jeweler. 

"It  might  be,"  admitted  Mr.  Boon,  diplomatically 
confessing  his  error. 

"Quite  so!"  said  the  owner  of  the  fur  cap,  tri 
umphantly. 

Mr.  Boon,  finding  himself  nearer  the  house  of  the 
duke's  host,  began  to  feel  more  confident  of  putting 
through  the  epoch-making  deal.  It  is  not  often 
that  a  New  York  jeweler  sells  pearls  to  an  uncle 
of  the  King  of  England,  to  be  used  by  the  king's 
most  beautiful  cousin !  He  would  have  the  princess's 
photograph  in  his  window.  It  should  show  the 
famous  necklace! 

The  motor  took  its  place  last  in  the  long  string  of 
automobiles  and  carriages  that  were  creeping  toward 
3  25 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

the  door  of  the  house  which  his  Royal  Highness  was 
honoring. 

1  'Democracy  meekly  leaving  its  card  at  the  house 
of  royalty,"  laughed  the  colonel,  pointing  to  the 
twoscore  vehicles  ahead  of  theirs. 

''Americans  paying  their  respects  to  an  English 
man  who  is  honored  even  in  his  own  country,"  said 
Mr.  Boon. 

"Oh,  now,  I  say,  Boon,  that's  uncommonly  neat, 
you  know.  What?  But  perhaps  we'd  better  get 
out  and  walk;  otherwise  it  may  be  a  half -hour 
before- 

A  footman  in  livery  came  up  to  their  motor, 
touched  his  hat  with  a  respect  that  entitled  him 
to  a  bank  president's  wages,  and  said  to  the 
colonel : 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  'is  Royal  'ighness  'as  gone 
to  Mr.  Walton's,  sir,  at  number  899  Fifth  Avenue. 
I  was  hinstructed  to  tell  you  to  go  there,  sir." 

"Tell  the  chauffeur  where  to  go,"  said  the  colonel, 
briefly. 

"Yes,  sir — very  good,  sir."  The  man  touched 
his  hat  and  told  the  chauffeur. 

Their  motor  pulled  out  of  the  line  and  turned  to 
the  west. 

"Mr.  Walton  was  at  Eton  with  the  duke,"  ex 
plained  the  colonel  to  Mr.  Boon. 

"J.  G.  Walton?"  asked  Mr.  Boon. 

"Yes." 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  educated  in  England,"  said 
Mr.  Boon  in  a  tone  that  implied  he  knew  Mr.  Walton 
well. 

"Didn't  you?"  said  the  colonel,  more  sharply  than 
the  occasion  warranted. 

26 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

"But  then,  we  never  discussed  the  subject,"  apol 
ogized  the  jeweler. 

"Do  you  know  the  house?" 

"Yes.  I've  been  in  it  several  times.  I  understood 
Mr.  Walton  was  in  Florida  and  had  rented  his  resi 
dence  for  the  winter." 

"I  don't  know  a  bally  thing  about  his  private 
affairs,"  said  the  colonel,  coldly;  "but  I  do  know 
the  duke  intended  to  visit  him,  and  I've  been  told  to 
go  there." 

It  occurred  to  the  store  detective  that  if  the  Eng 
lishman  was  rude  to  Mr.  Boon  it  was  altogether  likely 
the  duke  treated  his  private  secretary  as  a  servant. 
It  gave  the  detective  pleasure  to  imagine  this,  for 
whenever  the  colonel  had  looked  at  Mr.  Donnelly  it 
was  with  the  casual  indifference  with  which  men  look 
at  chairs  or  cobblestones.  This  made  T.  Donnelly 
feel  that  he  was  not  alive,  and  he  disliked  the  aris 
tocratic  undertaker. 

The  motor  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue,  sped  north 
ward,  and  halted  before  a  house.  Mr.  Boon  recog 
nized  Mr.  Walton's  residence. 

The  colonel  alighted  quickly  and  said  "Come  with 
me!"  in  the  tone  foreigners  use  to  menials,  and  didn't 
even  turn  his  head  to  see  if  he  was  followed,  but 
walked  up  to  the  door  and  rang  the  bell. 

A  man  in  livery  opened  the  door. 

"I  am  Colonel  Lowther!" 

"Yes,  sir.  His  Royal  Highness  said  you  were  to 
wait  in  the  drawing-room  unless  there  was  somebody 
with  you;  in  which  case  you  were  to  be  taken  to 
him,  sir." 

"Come  on!"  said  the  colonel  to  Mr.  Boon  and  the 
private  policeman.  The  footman  preceded  them  to 

27 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

a  door  at  the  back  of  the  foyer  hall,  opened  it,  drew 
back  heavy  portieres,  and  announced,  solemnly: 

"  Colonel  Lowther!" 

The  colonel  entered.  So  did  Mr.  Boon  and  Don 
nelly.  A  man  stood  gazing  out  of  a  window.  His 
back  was  toward  them.  For  the  first  time  Mr.  Boon 
— so  he  said  later — felt  that  something  was  wrong. 
Yet  he  made  no  effort  to  protect  himself. 

"Your  Highness,  here  are  the  pearls." 

The  duke  turned  round.  He  had  a  kindly  face, 
had  white  hair  and  mustaches. 

"Let  me  have  them!"  said  his  Royal  Highness,  in 
the  husky  whisper  of  a  man  suffering  from  acute 
laryngitis  or  partial  paralysis  of  the  vocal  cords. 

"I  know  that  voice!"  shouted  Donnelly,  and  the 
jeweler  knew  he  might  fear  the  worst;  but,  be 
fore  they  could  put  their  hands  in  their  pockets  for 
their  revolvers,  strong  fingers  took  strangle-holds  on 
their  throats,  a  spray  of  ammonia  had  been  squirted 
into  their  nostrils  and  eyes,  and  they  were  helpless. 
In  a  jiffy  their  wrists  were  handcuffed  behind  their 
backs,  their  feet  were  fastened  with  leg-irons,  their 
mouths  pried  open  with  a  bowie-knife  blade  that 
made  them  cease  struggling.  Pear-gags  were  in 
serted  into  their  mouths.  Donnelly  squirmed  and 
carried  on  like  a  frightened  child — but  at  the  same 
time  kept  unfrightened  eyes  on  the  duke.  Not  so 
Boon,  who  was  as  pale  as  ivory. 

The  duke  turned  his  back  on  his  captives  and  put 
on  a  black  cloth  mask,  but  the  watchful  Donnelly 
noticed  that  he  put  into  his  pocket  what  looked  like 
false  mustaches.  He  also  donned  a  pair  of  black 
gloves,  but  not  before  the  policeman  had  seen  a  long, 
white  scar,  beginning  at  the  knuckles  and  disappear- 

28 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

ing  up  the  wrist  into  the  cuff.  Donnelly  recalled 
having  heard  or  read  a  description  of  a  professional 
crook  that  tallied  with  what  he  had  seen.  It  would 
make  the  work  of  capture  easier. 

The  masked  duke  picked  up  the  precious  valise 
and  said,  "Take  them  to  the  others." 

The  four  men  who  had  nearly  strangled  the  jew 
eler  and  the  policeman  were  dressed  in  overalls  and 
jumpers,  had  on  black  masks,  and  wore  gloves. 
They  carried  the  helpless  victims  into  what  seemed 
to  be  the  servants'  dining-room. 

Propped  up  in  high-backed  chairs,  Mr.  Jesse  L. 
Boon,  of  Welch,  Boon  &  Shaw,  saw  Mr.  Wilfred 
Gaylord,  president  of  Goffony's,  Mr.  Percival  Pierce, 
of  Johnson  &  Pierce,  Mr.  J.  Sumner  Storrs,  of  J. 
Storrs'  Sons,  and  five  of  their  clerks.  Beside  Mr. 
Pierce  was  an  empty  chair.  Mr.  Boon  was  placed  on 
it.  The  detective  was  dumped  on  one  near  Goffony's 
clerk. 

"Tie  'em  in  couples,"  whispered  the  duke.  Each 
man  was  tied  to  the  back  of  his  chair — and  the  chairs 
themselves  were  tied  back  to  back. 

"That,"  explained  the  colonel,  "will  prevent  you 
from  hurting  yourselves  by  toppling  over  in  regret 
table  efforts  to  reach  the  door.  We  wish  no  harm  to 
befall  you.  What?" 

The  masked  men  in  overalls  left  the  room  like 
perfectly  trained  servants. 

"You  are  a  damned  fool!"  whispered  the  duke, 
angrily. 

"Why?"  amiably  asked  the  Englishman. 

"The  only  people  that  don't  talk  are  those  that 
can't." 

' '  I  know — but  murder  will  out !  Never  knew  it  to 

29 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

fail.  We  have — ah! — you  might  say — ah! — bor 
rowed  a  few  trinkets  from  these  gentlemen.  They 
may  get  them  back,  possibly;  but  you  can't  ever 
bring  back  the  breath  of  life  if  you  decapitate  them. 
What?" 

"I  tell  you  I  will  not  leave  them  here  to  blab!" 
hissed  the  duke;  and  Boon  could  not  help  thinking 
of  the  anger  of  a  rattlesnake  with  laryngitis.  "A 
slight  nick  in  the  jugular  and  they'll  bleed  away  pain 
lessly.  Just  before  the  end  they  will  begin  to  dream. 
By  -  -,  I'll  do  it!  Right  now!" 

The  duke  pulled  out  a  barber's  razor,  opened  it, 
and  approached  Boon. 

Something  about  his  manner  told  the  jeweler  that 
this  creature  was  about  to  cut  their  throats  as  much 
for  the  pleasure  of  it  as  because  of  the  supposed 
safety.  It  was  confirmed  when  the  masked  fiend 
wheezed,  malignantly: 

"It's  sterilized!"  " 

Mr.  Boon  was  suddenly  conscious  of  an  extreme 
cold,  as  if  he  had  been  thrown  naked  into  an  ice- 
cave.  On  Pierce's  face,  grown  gray,  the  sweat  stood 
in  a  microscopic  dew.  Gaylord's  florid  face  was 
livid  and  tense;  J.  Sumner  Storrs  had  closed  his 
eyes  and  seemed  asleep,  but  the  breath  whistled 
unpleasantly  through  his  nostrils. 

"Stop!"  said  the  colonel  so  sharply  that  the  duke 
turned  like  a  flash — to  look  into  the  barrel  of  a 
blue-steel  automatic. 

"Drop  the  razor,  old  chap!  I  can't  let  you  kill 
the  beggars  in  cold  blood.  Upon  my  soul,  I  can't, 
you  know!"  His  head  was  jerking  and  twisting 
at  a  furious  rate,  but  the  revolver  was  as  steady  as 
a  rock. 

30 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

"It's  OUT  only  chance.  It  won't  hurt  them. 
They  won't  feel  it  any  more  than  a  feather — it's  so 
sharp,"  whispered  the  black-masked  devil. 

"Drop  it,  I  say!"  said  the  colonel,  peremptorily. 
They  heard  a  gritting  of  teeth  from  behind  the  mask 
as  the  duke  closed  the  razor  and  dropped  it  on  the 
floor.  Still  covering  his  accomplice,  the  colonel  put 
his  foot  on  the  weapon.  "Thanks,  old  chap!"  he 
said,  pleasantly.  At  that  very  moment  he  could 
have  capitalized  the  gratitude  of  the  ten  prisoners  at 
many  thousands. 

"Fool!"  came  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"Oh,  now!     I  say!" 

"What's  the  difference  between  twenty  years  in 
the  pen  and  twenty  seconds  in  the  electric  chair? 
I  myself  prefer  the  chair.  But  I'd  rather  cut  their 
throats  and  keep  out  of  danger.  I  tell  you,  it's 
tempting  Providence  to  leave  these  men— 

"Is  it  as  much  as  twenty  years,  old  fellow?" 
queried  the  colonel,  obviously  perturbed. 

The  duke  nodded. 

"I  say,  gentlemen,  I  don't  want  to  stay  twenty 
years  indoors,  you  know.  Really,  it's  not  a  pleasant 
thought.  What?  If  I  give  you  your  lives  you 
must  not  take  away  my  liberty.  So  I  will  go  out 
now  and  leave  you  here  with  my  friend,  unless  you 
promise  not  to  tell  the  police  anything  that  will 
serve  as  a  clue  arid  yourselves  do  nothing  to  harm 
us.  If  you  will  act  like  gentlemen  I'll  undertake 
to  prevent  my  friend  here  from  severing  your  re 
spective  jugulars.  Nod  for  'Yes'  and  shake  your 
heads  for  'No.'  Promise  not  to  talk?" 

Ten  heads  nodded  vehemently. 

"Come,  old  chap;    you  must  take  their  words. 

31 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Gentlemen,  you  will  be  released  this  evening  without 
fail.  We  must  have  time  to  leave  New  York. 
Avoid  the  reporters  as  you  would  the  plague.  It 
would  not  be  wise  to  publish  the  facts!  Think  of 
it — the  heads  of  the  great  firms!  In  parting  from 
you,  gentlemen,  I  wish  to  thank  you  in  behalf  of 
the  Plunder  Recovery  Syndicate,  to  the  success  of 
whose  operations  you  have  in  this  instance  so  gen 
erously  contributed.  Gratitude  surely  is  not  in 
compatible  with  business  methods.  Gentleman, 
again  I  say,  Thank  you  kindly,  and — why  not? — 
au  revoir!" 

And  that  was  the  last  the  captives  saw  of  the  man 
who,  on  behalf  of  the  Plunder  Recovery  Syndicate, 
had  reduced  the  holdings  of  pearls  and  trinkets  of 
New  York's  most  famous  jewelers  by  a  trifle  over 
one  million  dollars'  worth. 

It  was  nearly  closing-time — midnight — that  night 
when  two  men  entered  P.  T.  Ayres's  corner  drug 
store.  One  of  them  wore  a  fur  overcoat  and  a  silk 
hat.  The  other  was  dressed  in  black,  had  a  mourn 
ing-band  about  his  hat,  and  wore  black  gloves.  He 
carried  a  bag  on  which  the  sleepy  lady  cashier  saw 
the  "L"  and  the  cabin  tags  of  a  transatlantic  line. 
The  man  in  black  said  to  her : 

"May  this  gentleman  telephone  for  me,  miss? 
My  throat  is  in  pretty  bad  shape,  and  I  don't  want 
to  use  it." 

It  was  in  bad  shape,  indeed.  She  could  hardly 
hear  him. 

"But,  I  say,  dear  chap — "  remonstrated  the  fur- 
coated  man,  whose  collar  was  so  tight  that  he 
wiggled  his  head  violently  as  if  in  search  of  comfort. 

"This  is  as  good  a  place  as  any,"  whispered  the 

32 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

man  in  black,  impatiently.  "Call  'em  up!  I  say, 
miss,  have  you  got  any  slippery  elm  or  some  kind 
of  troches  good  for  laryngitis?" 

She  remembered  afterward  that  when  she  said  she 
would  call  the  proprietor  he  kept  her  from  it  by 
engaging  her  in  conversation,  which  likewise  pre 
vented  her  from  trying  to  hear  what  his  companion 
was  saying. 

The  fur-coated  man  had  called  up  Spring  3100, 
which  is  police  headquarters. 

"Are  you  there?  I  say,  are  you  there?  Yes,  I 
know  this  is  not  London.  You  know  Mr.  Pierce 
and  Mr.  Storrs  and  Mr.  Boon  and  Mr.  Gaylord? 
Well,  tell  your  men  they  are  in  a  residence  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  in  the  servants7  dining-room.  It's  Colonel 
Walton's  house.  Right-O!  That's  not  your  busi 
ness.  Go  to  the  devil!"  He  came  out  of  the  booth 
with  an  angry  face.  "Confound  their  impudence! 
Where  is  my  friend?" 

"He's  gone,"  said  the  cashier.  "Here — come 
back  and  pay  for  that  call;  five  cents!" 

The  telephone  clerk  at  police  headquarters  prompt 
ly  told  the  news  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  missing 
jewelers — for  whom  the  star  men  had  been  searching 
six  hours  diligently  and  secretly  —  and  then  tried, 
through  the  telephone  Central,  to  get  in  touch  with 
the  pay  station  from  which  the  "tip"  had  come,  but 
couldn't,  as  they  would  not  answer.  The  reason 
Ayres's  drug-store  wouldn't  answer  was  that  the 
Englishman  in  his  ignorance  had  disarranged  the 
connection  without  betraying  that  fact.  The  de 
tectives  said  it  showed  a  technical  knowledge  of 
telephones  and  their  construction. 

The  news  was  kept  from  the  newspapers,  in  the 

33 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

first  place,  because  the  jewelers  requested  it  of  the 
Police  Department;  and,  secondly,  because  it  was 
deemed  wise  by  the  sleuths  to  fight  mystery  with 
mystery.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  detectives  were 
confident  of  apprehending  the  miscreants  shortly — 
for  had  they  not  left  a  trail  as  broad  as  Fifth 
Avenue? 

The  jewelers  went  back  on  their  words  to  the 
colonel,  who  saved  their  lives.  From  their  descrip 
tions  and  the  information  given  by  Ayres  and  the 
fair  cashier,  they  knew  the  husky-voiced  man  with 
the  scar  on  the  back  of  his  hand  must  be  Whispering 
Willie,  a  clever  all-round  crook.  The  Englishman, 
they  thought,  was  an  amateur.  The  police  com 
municated  with  the  Ruritania  by  wireless,  and  asked 
the  purser  if  among  the  passengers  were  a  man  of 
middle  height,  smooth-shaven,  about  forty  years  of 
age,  with  paralyzed  vocal  cords  that  made  him  talk 
as  if  he  had  acute  laryngitis,  and  a  tall,  well-built, 
blue-eyed,  blond  Englishman  with  a  nervous  afflic 
tion  of  the  neck  like  a  mild  form  of  St.  Vitus's  dance. 
Within  twenty-four  hours  the  purser  had  sent  the 
reply:  "St.  Vitus  here,  under  name  of  Lewis  J. 
Wright.  No  trace  of  Laryngitis. " 

So  headquarters  cabled  to  Scotland  Yard  to  hold 
the  tall  blond  afflicted  with  St.  Vitus's  dance,  who 
was  thought  to  have  sailed  under  the  name  of  Lewis 
J.  Wright,  until  the  detective  sergeant  and  one  of 
the  jeweler's  clerks  could  arrive  with  extradition 
papers.  And  that's  how  Mr.  L.  J.  Wright  was 
arrested  in  Liverpool,  less  on  account  of  New  York's 
request  than  by  reason  of  the  absurd  yarn  he  told. 
There  was  no  such  Dr.  Cephas  W.  Atterbury  as 
Wright  declared  he  was  going  to  see.  The  letter  of 

34 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

introduction  to  the  doctor,  moreover,  was  a  blank 
sheet  of  paper.  The  New  York  police  learned  about 
W.  W.  Lovell  in  this  way  and  knew  they  were  on  the 
right  trail. 

Ten  days  later  there  was  arrested  in  Paris,  at  the 
office  of  the  American  Express  Company,  a  man 
answering  the  description  of  Whispering  Willie,  who 
had  presented  some  checks  signed  by  W.  W.  Lowry. 
The  Paris  police  reported  that  W.  W.  Lowry  was 
probably  one  of  a  band,  because  the  scar  on  his 
hand  vanished  when  washed  with  alcohol.  And  his 
voice  grew  normal  when  questioned  by  the  prefect 
of  police.  He  told  an  absurd  story  of  having  been 
hired  at  the  rate  of  one  thousand  dollars  a  week  to 
ask  in  a  whisper  for  eleven  letters  at  the  American 
Express  Company's  office  on  February  nth,  at 
1 1. 1 1  A.M.,  and  declared  that  when  his  employer 
bade  him  good-by  on  the  steamer  he  painted  a  scar 
on  the  back  of  his  hand  and  told  him  always  to 
wear  black  gloves.  The  employer  answered  the 
description  of  Whispering  Willie  and  also  of  W.  W. 
Lovell.  The  police  found  that  the  whisperer's  trail 
led  a  second  time  to  the  Herald  office.  The  clerk, 
Carroll,  remembered  the  mysterious  advertiser  very 
well  indeed.  Messrs.  Reese  &  Silliman,  real-estate 
agents,  told  the  police  they  had  rented  Colonel 
Walton's  house  for  the  winter  to  a  Mr.  J.  C.  Atkinson, 
an  Englishman  who  had  given  as  references  a  firm  of 
international  bankers  on  whom  his  letter  of  credit 
for  five  thousand  pounds  was  diawn.  The  bankers 
knew  nothing  about  him  personally  or  socially. 
Mr.  Atkinson  had  drawn  the  entire  five  thousand 
pounds.  He  had  occupied  the  house  two  months, 
paid  his  rent  promptly,  and  had  given  a  satisfactory 

35 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

deposit  against  possible  damage  happening  to  any  of 
the  furniture. 

The  police  had  lost  four  weeks  of  valuable  time  in 
following  clues  that  merely  led  back  to  the  St.  lago 
Building  and  to  the  man  with  the  paralyzed  vocal 
cords  and  the  scar  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  calling 
himself  W.  W.  Lovell,  who  was  probably  William  W. 
Long,  alias  William  W.  Longworth,  alias  W.  W. 
Latshay,  alias  Whispering  Willie.  The  Englishman 
was  not  known  to  any  member  of  the  New  York 
police  force,  but  fortunately  he  had  a  nervous  af 
fliction  which  would  betray  him  without  recourse  to 
the  third  degree. 

Exactly  one  month  after  the  departure  of  the  real 
Duke  of  Connaught  from  New  York  Messrs.  Jesse  L. 
Boon,  Percival  Pierce,  J.  Sumner  Storrs,  and  Wilfred 
Gaylord  each  received  a  copy  of  the  following  letter, 
typewritten  on  note-paper  of  the  Ritz-Carlton : 

Having  disposed  of  the  pearls  of  the  Princess  Patricia  at  a 
price  only  eight  per  cent,  below  that  at  which  you  offered  them 
to  H.  R.  H.  the  Duke  of  Connaught,  we  beg  to  suggest  that  it  is 
a  waste  of  money  for  you  to  encourage  the  detectives  and  down 
right  dishonesty  for  the  detectives  to  encourage  you.  You 
have  caused  to  be  arrested  unfortunate  men  suffering  from 
chorea  in  Liverpool,  Bremen,  Genoa,  Buenos  Ayres,  and  Panama, 
as  well  as  Mr.  W.  W.  Lowry  in  Paris  and  W.  W.  Longman  in 
the  City  of  Mexico.  For  the  last  eleven  months  Whispering 
Willie  has  been  in  the  Missouri  State  Penitentiary,  where  he  is 
Number  317.  Our  Colonel  Lowther  has  not  St.  Vitus's  dance, 
is  not  an  Englishman,  and  has  not  left  New  York!  The  Duke 
of  Connaught,  otherwise  W.  W.  Lovell,  of  the  Acme  Vibrator 
Company,  has  a  fine,  strong  barytone  voice,  has  no  scar  on  the 
back  of  his  right  hand,  is  too  young  to  have  gray  hair,  and  his 
nose  is  not  what  it  was  when  he  was  known  as  Mr.  Lovell. 
We  needed  time  to  move  about  unwatcned  in  New  York,  hence 
the  elaborate  false  clues.  We  always  plan  our  deals  carefully  and 

36 


THE    PEARLS    OF    PATRICIA 

we  are  uniformly  successful.  We  may  inform  you,  in  self- 
defense,  that  we  operate  only  on  the  rich  enemies  of  society. 
Pearls  and  diamonds  have  ruined  as  many  women  as  drink  has 
ruined  men  or  Wall  Street  has  destroyed  souls !  We  regard  them 
as  plunder  to  be  recovered.  You  may  be  interested  to  know 
that  we  propose  to  induce  one  of  our  most  famous  high  financiers 
to  contribute  a  couple  of  millions  to  our  surplus  this  month. 
At  the  proper  time  we  shall  supply  the  name  and  the  particu 
lars,  in  order  that  you  may  compare  notes  with  the  other 
patrons  of 

Yours  truly, 

THE  PLUNDERERS. 

The  jewelers  were  inclined  to  regard  the  letter  as 
a  jest  in  very  bad  taste  perpetrated  by  one  of  their 
number.  But  all  denied  it,  and  the  communication 
was  turned  over  to  the  police.  The  detective  ser 
geant  who  was  in  charge  of  the  case  also  thought 
the  letter  was  a  joke — until  Mr.  Boon  told  him  he 
didn't  see  anything  funny  in  the  loss  of  a  million 
dollars'  worth  of  gems  and  a  score  of  false  arrests. 
He  wondered,  like  the  rest,  whether  there  really  was 
a  syndicate,  and  presently  found  himself  waiting 
for  the  news  of  the  second  exploit.  "He  fooled 
me,"  Boon  confided  to  Donnelly.  But  what  he 
really  meant  was  that  the  man  who  impersonated 
the  private  secretary  of  the  Duke  of  Connaught 
could  fool  anybody. 


II 

THE   PANIC   OF   THE   LION 


A  MAN  walked  into  the  office  of  Richards  & 
Tuttle,  bankers  and  brokers,  members  of  the 
New  York  Stock  Exchange.  All  he  could  see  was  a 
ground-glass  partition,  with  little  windows  only  a 
trifle  larger  than  peepholes,  over  which  he  read, 
"DELIVERIES,"  "COMPARISONS,"  "TELEGRAMS,"  and 
"CASHIER."  If  you  had  business  to  transact  you 
knew  at  which  window  to  knock.  If  you  had  not 
you  should  not  disturb  the  unseen  clerks  by  asking 
questions  that  took  valuable  time  to  answer.  It  was 
a  typical,  non-communicative,  non-confiding  Wall 
Street  office. 

The  man  approached  the  "CASHIER"  window  be 
cause  it  was  open.  He  was  tall  and  well  built,  with 
unmyopic  eyes  that  looked  through  tortoise-shell- 
rimmed  glasses.  The  brim  of  his  high  hat,  the  cut 
of  his  coat,  the  hang  of  his  trousers,  the  hue  of  his 
necktie  and  the  gray,  waxed,  needle-pointed  mus 
taches  proclaimed  him  unmistakably  Parisian. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Richards,"  he  said,  in  a  nasal 
voice,  so  like  the  twang  of  a  stage  Yankee  that  the 
cashier  frowned  and  twisted  his  neck  to  see  if  some 

38 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

down-easter  were    not  hiding  behind   the  French 
man. 

"You  what?"  asked  the  cashier,  and  looked 
watchful. 

"I  wish  to  see,"  repeated  the  stranger,  with  a 
formal  precision  meant  to  be  rebuking,  '  *  Mr.  George 
B.  Richards,  senior  member,  I  believe,  of  this 
firm." 

The  cashier,  with  a  frown  that  belied  the  courtesy 
of  his  words,  said : 

"Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  the  nature 
of  your  business,  sir?" 

Gourley,  the  cashier,  insanely  hated  book  agents, 
and  his  one  pleasure  in  life  consisted  of  violently 
ejecting  them  from  the  office.  When  a  man  clearly 
established  his  innocence  Gourley  never  forgave 
him  for  cheating  him  out  of  the  kicking. 
.  The  stranger  said,  very  slowly : 

"The  nature  of  my  business  with  Mr.  Richards  is 
private,  personal,  and  urgent!" 

The  stranger  might  be  a  customer,  and  customers 
make  brokers  rich  and  give  wages  to  cashiers. 

"Mr.  Richards  is  very  busy  just  now,  sir,  with  an 
important  conference.  It  would  be  a  favor  if  you 
could  let  me  have  your  name." 

"He  doesn't  know  me  and  he  has  never  heard  my 
name." 

"Would  any  one  else  do?" 

The  stranger  shook  his  head.     Then: 

"Say  to  Mr.  Richards  that  a  gentleman  from  Paris 
wishes  to  give  to  him — personally — ten  letters  of 
introduction,  one  card  of  same,  and  one  life  secret." 
The  man's  gaze  was  fixed  frowningly  on  Gourley. 

"Ten  letters  of  introduction,  one  card  of  same,  and 

39 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

one  life  secret!"  repeated  Gourley,  dazedly.  "Here, 
Otto.  Hold  the  fort.  I'll  go  myself." 

The  cashier's  place  was  promptly  occupied  by  a 
moon-faced  Teuton.  Presently  Gourley,  whose  mis 
anthropy  had  in  this  instance  merely  made  an  office- 
boy  of  him,  returned  to  the  window  and  said,  in  the 
insolent  tones  of  a  puglistic  agent  provocateur: 

"He  says  to  send  in  the  letters  of  introduction." 

"My  friend,"  said  the  stranger,  so  impressively 
that  the  cashier  was  made  uneasy,  "are  you  sure 
Mr.  Richards  said  that?" 

"Well — ah — he  said,"  stammered  Gourley,  "to 
ask  you — er — would  you  please  send  in  the  letters. 
He  will  read  them,  and  as  soon  as  possible  he  will — 
ah — see  you." 

"H'm!"  muttered  the  stranger,  skeptically.  Then, 
as  a  man  rids  himself  of  angry  thoughts,  he  shook 
his  head  and,  without  another  word,  went  out. 

"Ha!  I  knew  it  all  along,"  said  Gourley,  tri 
umphantly,  to  his  assistant,  Otto.  "It  beats  the 
Dutch  what  schemes  these  damned  book  agents 
get  up  to  see  people  during  business  hours.  But 
I  called  his  bluff  that  time!" 

Less  than  ten  minutes  later  the  French-looking 
man  with  the  down  -  east  voice  opened  the  door, 
tapped  at  the  cashier's  window,  and  told  Gourley, 
sternly: 

"Here  are  the  ten  letters  and  the  one  card. 
They  are  very  important!  I'll  be  obliged,  sir,  if 
you  will  yourself  give  them  into  Mr.  Richards's  own 
hands.  The  life  secret  I,  of  course,  will  impart  to 
him  myself.  Make  haste,  please.  I  have  only  five 
business  days  and  three  hours  left." 

Gourley  laid  the  letters  on  Mr.  Richards's  desk  and 

40 


THE    PANIC   OF    THE    LION 

said,  in  the  accusing  tone  old  employees  use  when 
they  are  in  the  wrong:  "Here  are  the  letters  of 
introduction  from  the  book  agent  I  spoke  to  you 
about.  He  acts  damned  impudent  to  me,  but  I 
didn't  want  to  make  any  mistake." 

Richards,  a  man  of  fifty,  fastidiously  dressed,  but 
relieved  from  even  the  implication  of  foppishness  by 
a  look  in  his  eyes  at  once  shrewd  and  humorous, 
said,  with  a  smile,  "Well,  he  certainly  has  enough 
letters  to  be  anything,  even  a  rich  man." 

"Funny  letters  of  introduction,"  said  the  cashier — 
"all  sealed  and — "  His  jaw  dropped.  That  made 
him  cease  talking. 

Mr.  Richards  had  taken  from  the  first  envelope 
not  a  letter,  but  a  ten-thousand-dollar  gold  certificate ! 

The  cashier  closed  his  mouth  with  a  click.  "What 
the — !"  he  muttered. 

"Next!"  said  George  B.  Richards,  cheerfully.  He 
opened  envelope  number  two  and  pulled  out  an 
other  ten-thousand-dollar  bill.  One  after  another 
he  opened  the  letters  until  he  had  laid  in  a  neat  pile 
on  his  desk  ten  ten-thousand-dollar  notes. 

"The  letters  of  introduction  are  from  the  Treasury 
Department,"  said  Richards,  laughing.  "Now  let 
us  see  whom  the  card  is  from." 

"I  don't  care  whom  the  card  is  from.  I  know  the 
man  is  crazy,"  said  Gourley,  in  the  defiant  tone  of 
one  who  expects  not  logic,  but  contradiction.  "It 
is  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face." 

"Maybe  they  are  counterfeit,"  teased  Richards; 
he  knew  they  were  not. 

The  cashier  snatched  one  from  the  desk,  looked 
at  the  vignette  of  Jackson,  and  examined  the  back. 
"It's  good,"  he  said,  gloomily. 
4  4i 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Richards  opened  the  eleventh  envelope  and  took 
out  a  card. 

"From  Amos  Kidder,  of  the  Evening  Planet,'1 
he  told  Gourley,  and  read  aloud: 

DEAR  GEORGE, — The  bearer,  Mr.  James  B.  Robison,  of  Paris, 
France,  a  friend  of  Smiley,  our  correspondent  there,  asked  me  to 
recommend  some  highly  intelligent  stock-brokers.  I,  of  course, 
at  once  thought  of  you.  Deal  with  him  as  you  do  with 

Yours, 

AMOS  F.  KIDDER. 

"Maybe  it's  a  set  of  those  French  books  that  are 
awful  until  you've  signed  the  contract  and  Volume  I. 
comes,  and  they  are  not  awful  at  all.  Those  fel 
lows,"  said  the  cashier,  indignantly,  "will  do  any 
thing  to  get  your  money." 

"You  forget  I've  got  his,"  suggested  Richards. 

"That's  a  new  one  on  me,  I  admit,"  said  the 
cashier;  "but  I'll  bet  a  ten-spot — 

"I'll  have  no  gambling  in  this  office!  Send  in  Mr. 
Robison;  and  if  Kidder  should  happen  in,  tell 
him  I'd  like  to  see  him." 

The  waxed-mustached  man,  preceded  by  Otto, 
the  moon-faced  clerk,  entered  the  private  office  of 
Mr.  George  B.  Richards,  who  rose  and  smiled 
pleasantly  even  as  his  keen  eyes  quickly  inventoried 
Mr.  Robison. 

"Mr.  Richards?"  twanged  the  stranger.  That 
Yankee  voice  issuing  from  between  those  unmis 
takably  French  mustaches  made  Richards  start ;  and 
yet  the  vague  atmosphere  of  disquietude  and  sus 
picion  that  the  ten  letters  of  introduction  had  created 
seemed  to  be  dispelled  by  the  man's  Yankee  twang. 
It  was  so  genuinely  down -east  that  it  humanized 

42 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

Mr.  Robison  and  made  his  eccentricity  less  eccen 
tric.  Also,  the  eyes  gleamed  not  with  the  fire  of 
insanity,  but  with  a  great  earnestness. 

"Yes.    And  this  is  Mr.  Robison?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  Mr.  Robison  bowed  very  low,  like 
a  man  who  has  lived  abroad  many  years. 

"Won't  you  be  seated,  sir?" 

"Thank  you,  sir."  There  was  another  bow  of 
gratitude,  and  Mr.  Robison  sat  down  by  Richards' s 
flat-topped  desk. 

"What  can  we  do  for  you,  Mr.  Robison?"  asked 
Richards,  amiably  polite.  His  course  of  action 
would  be  determined  by  the  stranger's  own  words. 

"You  can  help  me  if  you  will."  Mr.  Robison 
spoke  very  earnestly,  after  the  manner  of  strong, 
self-reliant  men  when  they  ask  for  favors. 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  if  you  will  tell  me  how." 

"By  being  patient.    That's  how." 

Richards  laughed  uncertainly.  Mr.  Robison  held 
up  a  hand  as  if  to  check  unseemly  merriment  and 
said,  very  seriously: 

"I  have  lived  alone  too  long  to  be  politic  or  diplo 
matic  or  evasive.  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"Ask  ahead,"  said  Richards,  with  an  encouraging 
recklessness. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Richards — what  is  the  most  diffi 
cult  thing  in  the  world?" 

Mr.  Robison  was  looking  intently  at  the  broker's 
face,  as  if  he  particularly  desired  to  detect  any 
change  in  expression.  This  intentness  disconcerted 
Richards,  who  had  at  first  intended  to  answer  jocu 
larly.  He  now  said,  distinctly  apologetic : 

"There  are  so  many  very  difficult  things!" 

"Yes,  there  are — a  great  many  indeed.  But  of 

43 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

all  things,  which  is  by  far  the  most  difficult?"  His 
eyes  held  Richards's. 

"I  shall  have  to  think  a  little  before  I  can  answer 
that  question. " 

"Take  all  the  time  you  wish!"  and  Mr.  Robison 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  attitude  somehow 
suggesting  a  Gibraltar-like  ability  to  withstand  a 
three  years'  siege. 

It  made  Richards  do  much  thinking  very  quickly : 
Here  was  a  man  who  was  not  crazy;  who  had  lying 
on  the  desk  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  cash  to 
which  he  had  not  even  casually  referred;  who  prob 
ably  intended  to  do  business  that  would  prove  a 
source  of  profit  to  the  firm  of  Richards  &  Tuttle.  He 
might  be  a  crank  or  a  crook,  but  against  either  con 
tingency  the  firm  could  and  would  protect  itself. 
It  was  just  as  well  to  humor  this  man  until  he  proved 
himself  unworthy  of  humoring.  The  problem  of 
the  moment,  therefore,  became  how  to  raise  the 
siege  politely. 

"I  suppose,"  began  Richards,  trying  to  look  philo 
sophical,  "that  telling  the  truth  always  and  every 
where  is  about  as  difficult  a  thing  as — " 

"It  isn't  a  question,"  interrupted  Robison,  with 
a  polite  regret,  "of  as  difficult  a  thing  as  any,  but 
of  the  most  difficult  of  all!" 

"I  am  afraid  111  have  to  ask  you  to  tell  me  what 
you  consider  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world." 

Brokers  have  to  earn  their  money  in  more  com 
plicated  ways  than  by  shouting  "Sold!"  or  "Take 
it!"  on  the  floor  of  the  Stock  Exchange.  They 
have  to  listen  to  potential  customers. 

"The  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world,  Mr. 
George  B.  Richards,  is  for  a  man  to  give  money — 

44 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

in  cash — to  a  woman  who  is  not  his  wife  or  his 
mistress  or  a  blood-relation  or  a  pauper!" 

"That  is  difficult!"  acquiesced  the  broker. 

"It  is  what  I  have  to  do.    That  is  why  I  am  here." 

"You  mean  you  wish  us  to  give  this  money — " 

"No — no!  How  can  you,  pray,  give  money  to  a 
lady  any  better  than  I?" 

"I  wondered,"  said  Richards,  patiently.  He  was 
beginning  to  fear  that  Robison  might  be  one  of  those 
mysterious  people  out  of  whom  no  money  is  to  be 
made. 

"Would  you  mind  hearing  my  story?"  Mr.  Robi 
son  looked  at  Richards  pleadingly. 

"Not  at  all,"  politely  lied  the  broker. 

"There  is  a  lady  in  New  York — to  be  explicit,  an 
old  sweetheart — "  Mr.  Robison  paused,  bit  his  lip, 
looked  away,  bit  his  lip  again  and  cleared  his  throat 
loudly.  He  did  all  these  things  so  untheatrically  that 
they  thrilled  the  keen-eyed  Wall  Street  man.  Pres 
ently  Mr.  Robison  went  on  in  that  Yankee  nasal 
voice  of  his  that  somehow  sounded  like  the  extreme 
antithesis  of  sentiment:  "The  only  woman  I  ever 
loved!  I  have  never  married!  She  did — unfortu 
nately;  and  now,  this  girl,  this  woman,  accustomed 
to  every  comfort  and  every  refinement,  has  to  earn 
her  own  living!  She  has  five  children  and  she  is 
earning  her  living!"  He  rose  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  office  like  a  caged  wild  animal.  Then  he 
sat  down  again  and  said,  determinedly,  "Of  course 
I  simply  have  to  do  something  for  her!" 

"I  appreciate  your  position,"  said  Richards,  ten 
derly.  He  was  a  very  good  stock-broker. 

"Thank  you.  You  cannot  imagine  what  she  was 
to  me !  I  came  to  America  to  find  her.  I  have  found 

45 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

her.  I  wish  to  give  her  money  or  securities  that  will 
insure  a  comfortable  income,  and  I  have  to  do  it 
circuitously.  I'd  give  half  a  million  to  anybody 
who  killed  her  damned  husband!  Yes,  I  would!" 
He  looked  at  Richards  with  a  wild  hope  in  his  eyes. 
He  calmed  himself  with  an  obvious  effort  and  pro 
ceeded:  "Knowing  her  as  I  do,  and  because  of — of 
certain  circumstances  of  our  early  affair,  I  know  she 
will  never  accept  any  help  directly  from  me.  Last 
night  I  was  calling  on  her.  Other  friends  of  hers 
were  present,  among  them  a  man  who  called  himself 
a  lawyer.  His  name  is  W.  Bailey  Jackson.  Know 
him?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  think  I've  heard  of  him,  though." 
Richards  lied  from  sheer  force  of  professional  habit. 

"Well,  I  led  the  conversation  round  to  Wall  Street 
and  incidentally  said  I  didn't  know  which  was  easier 
for  a  man,  to  be  a  fool  or  to  make  money  in  the 
stock-market.  I,  myself,  I  hastened  to  add,  had  al 
ways  found  folly  extremely  easy — but  successful 
stock  speculation  infinitely  easier.  That,  I  may  re 
mark  to  you  in  passing,  sir,  is  gospel  truth." 

"You  are  right,"  agreed  Richards,  heartily.  It 
did  not  behoove  a  stock-broker  to  point  out  the  diffi 
culty  of  making  money  in  Wall  Street.  Moreover, 
Mr.  Robison  showed  so  quiet  a  confidence  that 
Richards  had  lightning  flashes  of  memory,  and  recol 
lected  every  story  he  had  ever  heard  about  queer 
characters  who  had  taken  millions  out  of  the 
Street. 

"This  Mr.  W.  Bailey  Jackson  jeered  and  sneered, 
however,  until  I  said  I  would  bet  him  fifty  dollars 
to  fifty  cents  that  I  could  double  a  sum  of  money 
in  the  Street  in  one  week,  in  a  reputable  broker's 

46 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

office,  operating  on  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange 
in  a  reputable  and  active  stock — no  bucket-shop,  no 
mining-stock,  and  no  pool  manipulation.  But  I 
made  this  point:  The  trick  was  so  easy  that  it  was 
not  interesting.  I  didn't  wish  to  do  it  to  make 
money,  but  if  Mrs. — if  my  friend  would  accept  the 
profits,  I  would  prove  that  I  knew  what  I  was  talk 
ing  about;  and,  besides,  would  keep  the  children  in 
candy  for  a  month.  And,  of  course,  everybody 
laughed  and  urged  her  to  consent — especially  the 
Jackson  person.  In  the  end  she  gave  in,  doubtless 
thinking  I'd  win  a  few  dollars — if  I  won  at  all. 
Also  my  offer  was  accepted  in  the  presence  and  by 
the  advice  of  men  and  women  who  could  stop  Mrs. 
Grundy's  mouth." 

''Very  clever!"  said  Richards,  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  man  who  sees  commissions  coming  his  way. 

"It  was  love  that  made  me  so  ingenious,"  explained 
Mr.  Robison,  very  simply.  "I've  got  her  written 
acceptance  in  my  pocket  as  well  as  that  damned 
W.  Bailey  Jackson's  bet,  duly  witnessed  by  the  two 
gossipiest  women  there.  And  in  this  envelope  you 
will  find  instructions  for  your  guidance  in  case  of 
my  sudden  death.  So  I  now  wish  to  double  the 
money." 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  Richards,  who  thereupon 
felt  the  pangs  of  disappointment.  Neither  crank  nor 
crook,  decided  the  broker,  but  simply  Suckerius 
Americanus;  genus  D.  F. 

Mr.  Robison  evidently  was  going  to  ask  Richards 
&  Tuttle  to  take  the  one  hundred  thousand  dollars 
and  double  it  for  him,  which  meant  that  Mr.  Richards 
would  have  to  inform  Mr.  Robison  that  the  firm 
was  not  in  the  miracle  business;  and  that  would 

47 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

make  Mr.  Robison  go  away  mad.  Total — no  com 
missions  ! 

"Well,"  Richards  said,  just  a  trifle  coldly,  "did  you 
come  to  us  to  ask  us  to  double  your  money  for  you?" 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  Robison;  "I  came  here 
to  do  it." 

"When?" 

"In  one  week — or,  rather,  in  five  days  and  two 
hours." 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  it?"  The  broker's 
curiosity  was  not  feigned. 

"I  propose  to  study  the  Menagerie." 

Richards  said  nothing,  but  looked  "Lunatic!" 

"That  way  inevitably  suggests  the  combinations 
to  you."  Mr.  Robison  nodded  to  himself. 

Richards,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  did  likewise  and 
muttered,  absently,  "That's  so!" 

"Do  you  care  to  come  with  me?"  asked  Mr. 
Robison,  with  a  politeness  that  betrayed  effort. 

"Thank  you,  no.    I  am  very  busy,  and — " 

"And  you  didn't  cut  me  short!"  said  Robison, 
his  voice  ringing  with  remorse.  "I'll  come  in  to 
morrow  morning.  Good  afternoon — and  please  for 
give  my  theft  of  your  time,  Mr.  Richards." 

"One  moment.    Do  you  wish  this  money — " 

"I'll  get  the  receipt  to-morrow.  I  am  going  to  see 
Kidder  now.  I  didn't  mean  to  take  up  so  much  of 
your  time."  And  before  the  banker  could  stop  him 
Mr.  James  B.  Robison  was  out  of  the  inner  office 
and  out  of  the  outer  office  and  out  of  the  building 
and  out  of  the  financial  district. 

Shortly  afterward  Amos  F.  Kidder,  financial  editor 
of  the  Evening  Planet,  wert  into  Richards' s  office.  He 
was  thirty-five  years  old,  a  trifle  under  six  feet,  had 

48 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

light-brown  hair  and  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  is  a  cynic 
by  force  of  experience  and  an  optimist  by  reason  of  a 
perfect  liver — the  kind  of  man  who  is  fooled  by 
strangers  never  and  by  intimate  friends  always.  If 
what  he  had  seen  of  Wall  Street  gave  him  a  low 
opinion  of  men's  motives  he  had  the  defect  of  stead 
fast  loyalty.  Having  imagination  and  a  profound 
respect  for  statistics,  he  wrote  what  might  be  called 
skilful  articles  on  finance. 

"Your  friend  Robison  was  here  to-day.  What  do 
you  know  about  him?"  asked  Richards.  He  would 
not  take  a  stranger's  account,  but  he  did  not  relish 
losing  an  account  he  already  had. 

Kidder  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  gave  it  to 
the  stock-broker,  and  said: 

"Smiley  gave  him  a  letter  to  me  and  in  addition 
sent  me  that  one  by  mail." 

Richards  read: 

THE  NEW  YORK  PLANET,  5  RUE  DE  PROVENCE. 
PARIS,  February  18,  1912. 

DEAR  KIDDER, — IVe  given  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  Mr. 
James  B.  Robison,  who  comes  originally  from  some  manu 
facturing  town  in  Massachusetts,  like  Lynn  or  Lowell — I've  for 
gotten  which.  He  is  well  liked  by  the  colony  here  and,  I  am 
told,  has  been  kind  to  poor  art  students  and  other  self -deluded 
compatriots.  He  is  queer;  is  suspected  of  being  rich — which 
he  must  be  because  he  never  borrows,  lives  well,  and  says  money- 
making  is  too  easy  to  merit  discussion  when  men  can  discuss 
the  eternal  feminine  or  the  revival  of  cosmetics.  His  trip  to 
New  York  is  prompted,  he  tells  me,  by  the  receipt  of  a  letter 
from  an  old  flame  of  his  whom  he  warned  against  marrying  her 
present  husband.  She  would  not  listen  to  Robison,  accused 
him  in  choice  Bostonian  of  being  a  short  sport,  and  now  after 
long  years  she  writes  him,  asking  for  forgiveness,  being  at  last 
convinced  that  her  husband  is  ail  that  Robison  said — and  then 
some.  He  is  off  to  try  to  find  her;  she  is  somewhere  in  New 

49 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

York.    Put  him  in  touch  with  some  private  detective  who  won't 
rob  him  too  ruthlessly. 

I  don't  think  he'll  want  to  borrow  money,  as  I  know  he  is 
taking  a  letter  of  credit  on  Towne,  Ripley  &  Co.  for  fifty  thou 
sand  pounds;  and  they  told  me  at  his  bankers' — Madison  &  Co. 
— that  he  owns  slathers  of  gilt-edged  bonds  and  that  they  cash 
the  coupons  for  him.  They  also  tell  me  he  carries  more  cash 
about  him  than  is  prudent.  You  might  suggest  to  him  that  the 
New  York  banks  are  safe  enough.  You'll  find  him  a  character — 
odd  but  charitable.  Knowing  your  fondness  for  fiction  in  real 
life  I  commend  Mr.  Robison  to  you.  Regards  to  the  boys. 
Why  don't  you  make  a  million  and  come  over  to  spend  it  in  the 
company  of  Yours  as  ever, 

LURTON  P.  SMILEY. 

Richards  handed  the  letter  back.  "He  came  here 
with  ten  ten-th6usand-dollar  gold  certificates." 

"Yes;  he  got  'em  from  Towne,  Ripley  &  Co. 
I  went  with  him.  They  had  instructions  to  pay 
any  amount  he  might  call  for,  and  they  did.  He 
asked  for  large  bills." 

"He  got  'em!"  said  Richards,  greatly  relieved  at 
seeing  no  necessity  why  he  should  refuse  Robison's 
account. 

"What's  he  going  to  do?"  asked  Kidder. 

"I  don't  know.  He  told  me  he  had  found  his  old 
sweetheart  and  that  he  is  going  to  give  her  all  he 
makes  in  Wall  Street.  He  expects  to  double  the 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  a  week." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  George,  find  out  his  secret! 
Half  a  million  will  do  for  me,"  laughed  Kidder. 

"He  gave  me  an  envelope,"  said  Richards,  taking 
it  from  his  desk.  On  it  was  written : 

PROPERTY  OF  JAMES  B.  ROBISON 

To  BE  OPENED  BY  RICHARDS  &  TUTTLE 
IN  CASE  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

So 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Richards. 

"You  really  mean  do  I  advise  you  to  open  it, 
don't  you?"  asked  Kidder. 

"Not  exactly;  but—'1 

"Of  course,"  said  the  newspaper  man,  "it  does 
not  say  it  is  not  to  be  opened  in  case  of  living.  That 
is  sufficient  excuse — that  and  your  curiosity." 

"I  don't  like  to  open  it,"  said  Richards,  doubt 
fully. 

"Don't!" 

"Still,  I'd  like  to  know  what's  inside." 

"Then  open  it." 

"I  don't  think  I  have  a  right  to." 

"Don't,  then!" 

"Oh,  shut  up!  I  won't  open  it!  I  don't  know 
whether  to  take  the  account.  You  don't  know  any 
thing  about  this  man — " 

"You  broker  fellows  make  me  tired — posing  as 
careful  business  men.  All  Robison  has  to  do  is  to 
go  to  any  of  your  branch  offices  or  anybody's  branch 
office,  say  his  name  is  W.  Jones  and  that  he  keeps  a 
cigar-store  in  Hackensack  or  Flatbush,  and  your 
branch  manager  will  never  let  him  get  away.  And 
afore-mentioned  manager  will  swear,  if  you  should 
be  so  mean  as  to  ask  who  W.  Jones  is,  that  he  and 
W.  J.  went  to  school  together — known  him  for  years!" 

"After  all,"  said  Richards,  a  trifle  defiantly,  "there 
is  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  do  business  for  Robison 
that  you  know  of?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of — but  if  he  buncoes  you  out 
of  a  big  wad  don't  blame  me." 

"He  is  welcome  to  anything  he  can  make  out  of 
us,"  smiled  Richards,  grimly,  and  Kidder  laughed  so 
heartily  that  the  broker  looked  pleased  with  himself 

Si 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

and  his  witticism.  He  rang  for  the  cashier,  gave  him 
the  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  had  the 
amount  credited  to  James  B.  Robison,  address 
unknown. 

II 

After  leaving  the  office  of  Richards  &  Tuttle 
Mr.  James  B.  Robison  went  to  the  Subway  station 
at  Wall  Street,  rode  up-town  as  far  as  Forty-second 
Street,  walked  to  Sixth  Avenue,  took  a  surface  car, 
jumped  off  at  Forty-eighth,  walked  to  Forty-ninth, 
waited  there  for  the  next  car,  and,  being  certain  he 
was  not  shadowed,  rode  on  to  Fifty-sixth  Street.  He 
got  off,  walked  north  on  the  avenue  and,  half-way 
up  the  block,  paused  at  the  entrance  of  the  employ 
ment  agency  of  "Jno.  Sniff  ens,  Established  1858." 
On  the  big  slate  by  the  door  he  read  that  there  was 
wanted  a  coachman — careful  driver;  elderly  man 
preferred. 

He  walked  up-stairs  one  flight  and  accosted  the 
agent. 

"Good  morning,  Sniff  ens." 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Maynard,"  answered  Snif- 
fens,  son  of  the  original  Jno.,  very  obsequiously. 

"Are  they  here?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  many?" 

"Seven." 

"I've  seen  fifty-six  so  far — haven't  I?" 

"No,  sir,"  contradicted  Sniff  ens  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  will  tell  the  truth  even  if  death  should  re 
sult.  "Fifty-five.  You  forget  you  saw  the  Swede 
twice." 

"That  is  true,  Sniffens.  You  are  an  honest  man! 

52 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

Here!"  And  he  gave  ten  dollars  to  the  agent. 
"Send  in  the  men." 

He  sat  down  in  the  inner  office  and  Sniffens  went 
out,  presently  to  return  with  an  elderly  man. 

"This  is  Wilkinson — worked  twenty-nine  years — " 

"Sorry.  Won't  do.  Here,  my  man!  Take  this 
two-dollar  bill  for  your  trouble.  Next!" 

Much  the  same  thing  happened  with  the  next  four 
applicants.  The  fifth  man,  however,  made  Robison 
listen  patiently  while  Sniffens  finished  his  elabo 
rately  biographical  introduction.  The  man's  name 
was  Thomas  Gray;  age  fifty-eight;  worked  twelve 
years  for  General  James  Morris  and  fourteen  for 
Stuyvesant  R.  Morris.  Very  careful.  Excellent 
references.  Morris  family  went  abroad  to  live. 
Gray  had  not  done  anything  for  five  years,  but  was 
willing  and  anxious  to  work. 

Robison,  who  had  been  studying  Gray  keenly, 
said  sharply,  and  not  at  all  nasally: 

"Height  and  weight ?" 

"Five  foot  eleven  and  a  half  inches;  one  hundred 
and  seventy  pounds,  sir." 

"Deaf?" 

"No,  sir." 

"No?" 

"No,  sir;  but  I  don't  hear  as  well  as  I  did." 

"Can  you  hear  this?"  And  Robison  whispered, 
"Constantinople!" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir!"  Gray  looked  at  Mr.  Robi- 
son's  face  intently,  but  Robison  shook  his  head  and 
said: 

"No  fair  looking!  That  isn't  hearing,  but  lip- 
reading.  Close  your  eyes  and  listen!"  And  he 
whispered,  "Bab-el-Mandeb!"  No  one  could  have 

53 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

heard  him  three  feet  away  and  Gray  was  across  the 
room.  Robison  raised  his  voice  and  said,  "Did  you 
hear  that?" 

There  showed  in  Gray's  blue  eyes  a  pathetic  strug 
gle  between  telling  the  truth  and  getting  the  job. 

"I — I  only  heard  a  faint  murmur,  sir." 

"Try  again.  Listen!"  Mr.  Robison  moved  his 
lips  soundlessly  and  asked,  "What  did  I  say,  Gray?" 

The  old  man  drew  in  a  deep  breath.  It  was  not 
so  much  the  money,  for  the  Morris  family  gave  him 
a  pension ;  but  he  wished  to  feel  that  he  was  not  yet 
useless,  that  he  was  still  worth  his  keep.  However, 
he  shook  his  head  and  said,  determinedly: 

"I  heard  nothing." 

"Open  your  eyes!  You  get  the  job,  Gray,"  said 
Mr.  Robison.  "Come  here!" 

As  Gray  approached  his  new  employer  Sniffens 
left  the  room. 

"You  are  not  to  tell  any  one  for  whom  you  are 
working,  or  where,  or  why,  or  for  how  long,  or  for 
what  wages.  There  will  be  no  night  work.  Are  you 
very  careful?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You'll  have  to  take  some  children  to  school  every 
day — poor  children  to  a  public  school  in  the  morning. 
You  are  not  to  ask  their  names.  Do  what  you  are 
told,  no  matter  how  queer  it  seems  to  you,  so  long 
as  you  are  not  asked  to  break  the  law  of  the  land  or 
the  rules  of  the  road." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"I  shall  send  people  to  ask  you  questions,  and  I 
warn  you  that  I'm  going  to  put  you  to  various  tests. 
I  want  a  man  who  is  honest  enough  to  trust  with 
valuables,  wise  enough  to  mind  his  own  business, 

54 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

and  faithful  enough  to  do  what  his  employer  tells 
him." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Until  you  prove  you  are  the  man  I  want  you  will 
be  paid  by  the  day — five  dollars.  You  will  feed 
yourself  and  sleep  home.  I  supply  the  livery  and  a 
second  man.  If  after  one  month's  trial  you  are 
found  satisfactory  you  will  get  your  wages  by  the 
month.  It's  big  wages,  but  I  want  an  honest  man!" 
He  looked  at  Gray  sternly. 

"Yes,  sir.  I'm  careful  and  honest,  sir.  I  think 
you  will  find  that  to  be  true,  sir." 

"I  trust  so.  The  stable  is  on  Thirty-first  Street, 
near  Avenue  B.  Here  is  the  number."  He  gave  a 
card  to  Gray.  "Be  there  at  eight  sharp.  You  will 
drive  a  coupe;  quiet  horse;  New  York  City." 

"Yes,  sir.     I'll  be  there,  sir." 

"Here's  five  dollars  for  you.  You  don't  have  to 
pay  any  fee  to  Sniff  ens.  I've  paid  him." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Good  day,  sir." 

At  seven-thirty  the  next  morning  Gray  was  at  the 
stable.  It  was  not  a  very  good-looking  place.  He 
rang  the  bell,  feeling  vaguely  uncomfortable.  No 
one  answered.  He  rang  a  second  and  a  third  time, 
and  still  there  was  no  answer.  He  listened,  his  ear 
close  to  the  door.  He  heard  the  muffled  sound  of  a 
horse  pounding  in  a  well-littered  stall. 

At  eight  o'clock — Gray  heard  a  clock  within  chime 
the  hour — the  door  opened.  Gray  entered.  A  man 
was  hitching  up  a  dark  bay  horse  to  a  coupe.  Mr. 
Robison  was  sitting  in  a  sumptuous  green-plush  arm 
chair  in  the  carriage-room.  Behind  him,  on  a  ma 
hogany  table,  was  a  small  valise,  opened. 

"Good  morning,  Gray,"  said  Robison. 

55 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Maynard,"  said  Gray,  re 
spectfully. 

Robison  took  a  clean  white -linen  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket  and  said : 

"See  that  brick  over  there?"  He  pointed  to  a 
common  red  brick  on  a  little  shelf  near  the  street 
door. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  wrap  it  up  in  this  handkerchief — here  on 
this  table.  No — don't  dust  it.  Just  as  it  is!"  He 
watched  Gray's  face  keenly.  The  old  man's  coun 
tenance  remained  English  and  impassive. 

"Put  it  in  the  valise." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"In  yonder  box  you'll  find  some  tenpenny  nails. 
Fetch  three  and  wrap  them  up  in  the  sheet  of  paper 
you'll  find  in  the  valise.  Then  lay  them  on  top  of 
the  brick." 

Gray  did  as  he  was  bid.  If  he  thought  his  em 
ployer  was  crazy  he  did  not  look  it.  .". 

Robison  then  took  from  his  pocket  a  sealed  en 
velope,  threw  it  into  the  valise,  and  closed  the  valise. 

"You  will  find  your  livery  in  the  dressing-room — 
door  to  your  left.  Put  it  on.  Then  drive  so  as  to  be 
before  197  West  Thirty-eighth  Street  at  exactly 
nine  minutes  after  nine.  Compare  your  watch 
with  that  clock.  Wait  there — Thirty-eighth  Street — 
until  a  footman  in  dark-green  livery  comes  out  alone. 
If  he  asks  you,  'James,  did  Ben  win?'  you  will  say 
to  him,  'The  answer  is  inside.  Take  it!'  You  will 
then  return  to  this  stable,  fasten  the  horse  to  that 
chain,  put  on  your  street  clothes,  go  home,  and 
return  to-morrow  at  eight  sharp.  But — "  He 
paused. 

56 


THE    PANIC   OF    THE    LION 

''Yes,  sir." 

"Pay  attention,  Gray!  If,  instead  of  the  servant 
alone,  the  servant  comes  out  of  197  West  Thirty- 
eighth  Street  accompanied  by  a  gentleman  who  gets 
in,  you  will  drive  him  to  my  office." 

"Where,  sir?" 

"This  is  my  office — here.  You  will  drive  back 
here  quickly  and  disregard  everything  your  pas 
senger  may  say  or  whatever  orders  he  may  give  you. 
You  understand?  These  are  your  orders  that  I  now 
give  you.  They  are  not  to  be  changed  under  any 
circumstances,  no  matter  what  happens.  Have  you 
understood?" 

"Yes,  sir.     I'll  follow  orders,  Mr.  Maynard." 

"See  that  you  do."  And  Mr.  Robison  walked 
out  of  the  stable. 

At  nine-nine  sharp  Gray  stood  in  front  of  197  West 
Thirty-eighth  Street.  At  nine-fifteen  a  footman  in 
dark-green  livery  came  out  of  the  house.  He  was  fol 
lowed  by  Mr.  Robison  himself.  The  man  opened 
the  door  of  the  carriage  and  Gray's  employer  got  in. 

"Will  you  go  to  the  office,  sir?"  asked  the  foot 
man.  Gray  heard  him. 

"No!  Metropolitan  Museum!"  answered  their 
master,  distinctly. 

"Metropolitan  Museum!"  said  the  footman  to  the 
coachman. 

Gray  was  torn  by  doubt,  anger,  and  fear.  Should 
he  drive  to  the  Metropolitan  or  back  to  the  stable? 

He  decided  to  go  back  to  the  stable.  If  he  were 
discharged  he  would  not  regret  losing  so  unsatis 
factory  a  job.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  driving  back 
should  prove  to  be  the  right  thing  he  would  greatly 
strengthen  his  position. 
5  57 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

He  arrived  at  the  stable,  fastened  the  horse  to  the 
chain,  and  went  to  change  his  clothes.  He  heard 
Mr.  Robison  tap  on  the  glass  of  the  door  and  saw  him 
beckon  to  him  and  then  heard  him  shout,  "Open  the 
door!"  But  Gray  went  to  the  dressing-room  and 
changed  his  clothes.  As  soon  as  he  was  done  the 
second  man  came  in,  showed  him  two  envelopes,  and 
said: 

"You  win!  You  get  the  ten  dollars!  I  get  the 
five-spot.  That's  how  he  pays.  You  obeyed  orders. 
You  are  the  first  man  that's  succeeded  in  holding 
the  job  over  one  day.  The  Lord  only  knows  what 
test  Mr.  Maynard  will  prepare  for  you  to-morrow! 
It  may  be  the  children's  lunch  stunt  or  the  runaway 
lunatic.  Run  out!  Mr.  Maynard  won't  like  you 
to  be  here  when  he  comes  in.  You  can  go  out  into 
the  street  by  that  door  without  going  through  the 
carriage-room." 

Gray  put  the  ten  dollars  in  his  pocket  and  walked 
out.  "Rum  go,  that!"  he  muttered.  It  was  in 
deed.  He  nodded  his  head  with  a  sad  sort  of  triumph 
to  show  that  though  he  had  not  solved  the  mystery 
he  had  at  all  events  grasped  the  situation  and  was, 
moreover,  ten  dollars  to  the  good. 

in 

It  was  after  the  opening  of  the  stock-market  and 
most  of  the  early  orders  had  been  executed.  The 
rush  had  given  place  to  the  calm  efficiency  of  a  well- 
organized  broker's  office.  Mr.  Robison  walked  into 
the  Customers'  Room,  approached  Gilbert  Wither- 
spoon,  a  valued  customer,  touched  his  hat-brim  with 
two  fingers  in  the  French  military  fashion,  and  said : 

58 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

1  *  Please,  where's  Mr.  Richards  ?"  His  nasal  twang 
and  his  Parisian  appearance  produced  the  usual 
impression  of  striking  incongruity  upon  all  men 
within  hearing  distance.  Everybody  frankly  listened. 

"That's  his  private  office,"  answered  Witherspoon, 
non-committally,  pointing  his  finger  at  a  door. 

"Thank  you  very  much !"  said  Robison  and  bowed. 
Then  he  knocked,  heard  a  peremptory  "Come  in!" 
and  disappeared  within. 

Witherspoon,  who  cultivated  a  reputation  as  a 
wit — there  is  a  buffoon  in  every  stock-broker's  office 
— shrugged  his  shoulders  Frenchily,  and,  in  a  nasal 
voice  obviously  in  imitation  of  Robison,  said: 

"Another  world-beater!" 

"You  never  can  tell,"  retorted  Dan  McCormack, 
oracularly.  He  was  fat,  always  played  "mysteries" 
in  the  market — traded  in  those  stocks  the  movements 
in  which  were  unaccounted  for — and  he  did  not  like 
Witherspoon. 

Inside  Mr.  Robison  had  said  "Bon  jour!19  and 
bowed  so  very  low  that  Mr.  Richards  immediately 
thought  of  the  language  of  a  fashionable  bill  of  fare. 

"Wie  geht's?"  retorted  Richards,  jocularly.  Then, 
nicely  serious,  "How  are  you  this  morning?" 

"Don't  I  look  it?"  said  Mr.  Robison.  "I  am,  of 
course,  perplexed." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"The  usual  trouble  when  I  try  to  beat  the  stock- 
market — embarras  de  richesses" 

"It  is  an  embarrassment  that  most  people  would 
welcome." 

"Tut!  The  more  elaborate  the  menu  is  in  a  good 
restaurant  the  greater  your  indecision  as  to  which 
particular  dish  you  will  order!  Well,  I  went  through 

59 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

the  Menagerie!"  There  was  a  catarrhal  despair  in 
his  voice. 

"Yes?" 

"And  I  am  undecided  between  four." 

Robison  looked  anxiously  at  the  broker,  and 
Richards  felt  such  an  annoyance  as  a  man  might  feel 
if  compelled  at  the  point  of  a  pistol  to  listen  to  the 
reading  of  one  hundred  pages  of  the  city  directory. 
But  he  smiled  tolerantly,  for  he  had  the  professional 
amiability  indispensable  to  men  whose  business  con 
sists  of  making  money  and  of  consoling  clients  for 
losing  money. 

"Four  what?"  he  asked. 

"Four  sure  ways." 

"Which  four?"  asked  Richards.  He  managed  to 
convey  both  that  he  was  dying  to  listen  and  that  the 
rest  of  the  world  did  not  exist  for  him. 

"The  Ant,  the  Spider,  the  Beaver,  and  the  Lion. 
Out  of  the  nineteen  combinations  in  the  Menagerie 
I've  narrowed  my  choice  to  these  four.  You  know 
conditions  better  than  I  and  probably  have  seen 
the  Cribbage  Board.  Have  you  a  choice  ?"  He  looked 
at  Richards  so  eagerly,  and  withal  so  shrewdly  and 
sanely,  that  in  self-defense  the  broker  said: 

"I  can't  say  that  I  have.  Of  course  I  am  bullish —  " 

"Of  course.  But  the  question  is:  Which — in  a 
week?" 

Richards  had  no  idea  what  was  meant  by  this  man 
with  the  sane  eyes  who  said  crazy  things  through 
his  nose— a  man  who  had  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars  to  his  credit  with  the  firm.  Perplexed  to  the 
verge  of  exasperation,  Richards  was  stock-broker 
enough — when  in  doubt,  bluff! — to  say,  with  a 
frown,  "Yes,  that's  the  question:  Which — in  a 

60 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

week?"  He  shook  his  head  as  though  he  were  trying 
to  pick  out  the  best  for  his  beloved  Robison. 

"I  never  was  so  puzzled  in  my  life,  and  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I've  made  money  even  in  Rumanian 
bonds!" 

4 'I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you  much." 

"What  does  the  I.  S.  Board  say?" 

"Mr.  Robison,  exactly  what  do  you  mean  by  the 
I.  S.  Board?" 

"What?  You  don't  know  the  International  Syn 
dicate  Cribbage  Board!  Then  how  in  Hades  do  you 
pick  your  combinations?" 

"We  buy  and  sell  stocks  on  our  judgment  of  basic 
conditions  or  for  special  reasons." 

"Ah,  yes — like  the  public.  You  base  your  trades 
on  gas  and  guess.  Well,  I  don't!  I'd  play  the  Ant, 
but  I  don't  see  the  Granary  full  in  a  week.  Jay 
Gould  had  a  perfect  mania  for  it ;  it  was  an  obsession 
with  him.  And  yet  he  seldom  won  commensurately 
with  his  risks.  In  the  Northwest  corner  he  was  tied 
up  over  a  year  and  lost  more  than  a  million.  I  guess 
we'll  dispense  with  the  Ant,  though  it  looks  so  safe 
for  the  Granger  group." 

Robison  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud  rather  than 
asking  for  advice.  But  Richards,  who  was  a  Wall 
Street  man  to  his  finger-tips,  said,  gravely,  "I  think 
you  are  right." 

Robison  nodded,  to  show  he  had  heard,  and  went 
on:  "The  situation  in  the  Pacific  Coast,  of  course, 
suggests  the  Beaver  at  once.  I  can  see  the  Dam  in 
Union  Pacific;  but  I  don't  like  to  try  it  so  soon 
after  the  Rothschilds  worked  it  so  openly  in  Berlin 
over  the  Agadir  excuse.  Too  many  people  who 
have  access  to  the  Menagerie  remember  it.  I  real- 

61 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

ize  all  this,  but,"  he  finished,  with  profound  regret, 
"it  is  such  a  cinch!" 

"Yes.  But — "  Richards  shook  his  head  in  sym 
pathy.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  humor  this  man; 
moreover,  business  was  quiet,  and  this  man  was  say 
ing  incomprehensible  things  that  would  be  repeated 
by  Richards,  with  sensational  success,  at  luncheons 
and  dinners  for  weeks. 

"Of  course,  the  Spider  is  the  oldest  stand-by. 
Personally  I  never  liked  it.  In  the  Governor  Flower 
boom  and,  indeed,  up  to  the  Northern  Pacific  panic, 
its  popularity  was  due  to  John  W.  Gates.  But  do 
you  know,  Mr.  Richards,  I  have  always  believed 
that  in  the  first  two  Steel  and  Wire  coups  and  in  the 
Louisville  &  Nashville  affair,  Gates  hit  upon  it  by 
accident.  Else,"  pursued  Mr.  Robison,  contro 
versially,  "why  was  he  pinched  so  badly  in  1901 
and  again  in  1907?  He  hit  upon  it,  after  he  got 
out  of  Federal  Steel,  by  accident,  I  tell  you!  He 
was  a  man  of  genius  and  courage,  but  it  was  all 
instinct  with  him.  He  was  no  student,  sir — no 
student!" 

"I've  always  said,"  observed  Mr.  George  B.  Rich 
ards,  "that  Gates  was  not  a  student!"  He  glared, 
thereby  successfully  defying  contradiction. 

* '  It  leaves  the  Lion !"  muttered  Robison.  ' '  Should 
I  try  it?  And  which  Peg?" 

"I'd  try  it!"  counseled  Richards,  who  was  not 
only  intelligent,  but  had  a  sense  of  humor. 

"Would  you,  really?" 

"Yes,  I  certainly  would!"  And  the  broker  looked 
as  if  he  certainly  meant  it. 

"It's  the  Dutch  favorite,"  said  Robison,  musingly. 
"And  they  are  a  very  clever  people.  You  know 

62 


THE    PANIC   OF    THE    LION 

Van  Vollenhoven  in  his  book  says  that  once  a  year, 
for  thirteen  consecutive  years,  the  great  Cornelius 
Roelofs,  of  Amsterdam,  made  a  million  gulden  in 
London  by  the  Lion — the  most  hopeful  pessimist  in 
the  history  of  stock  speculation!  It  comes  easy  to 
the  phlegmatic  Hollanders,  but  Americans  are  too 
nervous  to  take  kindly  to  it.  I  once  begged  the  late 
Addison  Cammack  to  join  me  in  a  Lion  deal,  but 
he  didn't.  He  was  not  very  well  at  the  time.  Any 
how,  he  was  too  American.'1 

"Did  you  know  him?" 

"Like  a  book!  Dangerous  man  to  follow!  Cyni 
cism  sounds  impressive,  but  is  wind.  You  don't 
win  in  the  stock-market  with  catch  phrases,  but  with 
combinations." 

"Do  you  use  charts?" 

"A  stock  speculator  is  not  a  navigator,  but  all 
commission-houses  should  have  a  chart.  With  some 
customers,  after  you  have  exhausted  every  other 
invitation,  you  can  use  the  chart  to  get  them  trading. 
But  not  for  us,  Mr.  George  B.  Richards.  I  think 
you  will  soon  realize  that  I  am  in  this  affair  not  to  lose 
money,  but  to  make  it.  I  shall,  therefore,  either 
buy  Dock  Island,  sell  Middle  Pacific,  buy  National 
Smelting,  or  sell  Consolidated  Steel.  I'll  have  a 
pad  of  special  order-slips  made  so  you  will  not 
mistake  my  orders  for  those  of  any  one  else.  You 
will  execute  for  me  no  order  that  is  not  written 
and  signed  by  me  on  such  a  slip.  I'll  keep  up  my 
margin.  We'll  operate  on  a  ten-per-cent.  basis; 
and  I  hereby  authorize  you  to  sell  me  out  when  my 
margin  is  down  to  six  points.  That  gives  you  ample 
safety.  It  is  really  unnecessary,  as  I  never  lose; 
but  I  always  protect  the  broker.  The  sudden  death 

63 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

by  heart  disease  of  Baron  Lespinasse  in  1883  sent 
into  bankruptcy  the  great  firms  of  La  Croissade  et 
Cie.  and  Mayer,  Dreyfus  et  Cie.,  of  Paris,  Ver- 
brugghe  Fr£res,  of  Brussels,  and  about  a  dozen 
smaller  houses.  Mine,  to  be  sure,  is  a  trifling  opera 
tion,  designed  to  supply  a  modest  income  to  an  old 
flame.  But  I  may — who  knows? — decide  to  take  a 
few  millions  back  with  me.  And  your  firm,  Mr. 
Richards,  will  be  my  principal  brokers." 

Mr.  Robison  said  this  so  impressively,  so  much 
as  though  he  had  made  the  firm  of  Richards  &  Tuttle 
rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  that  George  B. 
found  it  easy  to  look  grateful  as  he  said,  "  Thank 
you,  Mr.  Robison."  It  would  be  worth  while  watch 
ing  this  mysterious  man,  to  see,  first,  if  he  made 
money;  and  if  he  did,  how! 

"I'll  write  it  here  and  now.  If  my  margins  are 
down  to  six  points  at  any  time  close  me  out,  for  I 
shall  have  been  mistaken,  which  is  a  sign  I've  gone 
crazy ;  or  I  shall  be  dead,  in  which  case  protect  your 
self!" 

Mr.  Robison  wrote  out  the  instructions,  signed 
them,  and  gave  them  to  Mr.  Richards.  He  must 
have  noticed  a  look  of  uncertainty  or  dissatisfaction 
on  the  broker's  face,  for  he  said: 

"I  have  no  desire  to  pose  before  you  as  an  unfail 
ing  winner,  though  I  assure  you  I  seldom  lose.  It 
is  not  brains,  but  carefulness.  If  you  know  nothing 
about  the  International  Syndicate's  information- 
collecting  machinery,  why,  just  take  my  word  for  it 
that  there  are  people  in  this  world  who  don't  work 
on  the  hit-or-miss  plan.  We  don't  eliminate  all 
possibilities  of  failure;  we  merely  reduce  them  to  a 
negligible  minimum.  We  cannot  prevent  all  acci- 

64 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

dents,  but  we  can  and  do  foresee  some  of  them. 
This  sounds  crazy  to  you,  I  know — no,  don't  deny 
it ! — but  all  I  can  say  is  that  your  natural  suspicions 
don't  affect  your  kindness  and  courtesy,  and  I  am 
more  grateful  than  I  can  say.  Of  course,  my  own 
operations  here  will  be  conducted  with  your  approval, 
in  strict  accordance  with  the  rules  of  the  New  York 
Stock  Exchange." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  I  haven't  doubted  your  sanity," 
said  the  broker,  who  had  been  much  reassured  by 
Mr.  Robison's  look  of  frankness  and  earnestness  as 
he  spoke.  "I  have  merely  suspected  the  depths  of 
my  own  ignorance." 

"Your  retort  is  both  kind  and  clever.  I  thank 
you.  I  shall  have  to  borrow  one  of  your  clerks  or 
office-boys  between  nine -forty  and  ten  A.M.,  to 
whom  I  may  give  my  orders  to  bring  to  this  office, 
and  also  ask  you  to  recommend  to  me  some  young 
man  who  is  intelligent  but  honest,  wide  awake  but 
deaf  to  the  ticker." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

' '  I  shall  need  a  young  man  who  can  watch  certain 
developments  and  at  the  crucial  moment  will  hasten 
to  me  without  stopping  on  the  way  to  take  advantage 
in  the  stock-market  of  what  he  has  learned  while 
working  for  me." 

"I  shall  let  you  have  one  of  my  own  clerks. 
He'll  do  as  he  is  told." 

"That  is  not  always  to  be  taken  as  praise — but 
I  thank  you.  There  will  be  some  telegrams  come 
for  me.  Will  you  kindly  see  that  they  are  held? 
Good  morning!"  And  he  left  the  room. 

An  hour  later  cablegrams  and  telegrams  by  the 
dozen  began  to  come  in  for  Robison,  care  Richards 

65 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

&  Tuttle.  But  Robison  did  not  return  to  the  office 
until  after  the  close  of  the  stock-market. 

"Any  messages?"  he  asked  Richards. 

"Not  over  a  hundred!"  answered  the  broker, 
smilingly.  He  felt  less  suspicious  after  the  tele 
grams  began  to  arrive;  they  were  tools  he  under 
stood. 

"I  used  the  Triple  Three,"  explained  Robison, 
opening  telegram  after  telegram;  the  cables  he 
seemed  to  leave  for  the  last.  The  telegrams  were, 
as  Richards  later  ascertained,  from  San  Francisco, 
Seattle,  Tacoma,  Los  Angeles,  Salt  Lake  City,  Van 
couver,  and  other  points  west  of  the  Rockies.  Each 
contained  but  one  word,  but  always  the  word  ended 
in  "less,"  such,  for  example,  as  Headless,  Toothless, 
Tailless,  Nerveless.  All  were  signed  in  the  same 
way,  to  wit:  Three-Three-Three. 

"No  Beaver!  I'm  just  as  glad,"  Robison  mused 
aloud  and  took  up  the  cablegrams.  They  were 
from  London,  Paris,  Berlin,  Frankfort,  and  Amster 
dam.  They  were  in  code,  but  he  seemed  tojiave  the 
key  by  heart.  The  very  last  one  made  him  thought 
ful. 

He  handed  the  cablegram  absently  to  Richards 
and  said,  "The  Lion  after  all — and  artificial  at 
that!"  He  seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought,  oblivious 
of  his  whereabouts,  as  Richards  read: 

ROBISON,  care  RICHTUT: 

Mogulgar  wind  Lloyd  Vast  Nigger  Shaw  twice  home  urban 
sweet  Edward. 

"Code,  hey?" 

"Lion!  Oh!  Code,  did  you  say?  No.  Code  is 
too  risky.  Plain  reading!  Of  course  I  have  more 

66 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

practice  than  you.  Give  it  to  one  of  your  office-boys 
to  decipher.  If  he  succeeds  give  him  fifty  dollars 
and  charge  it  to  my  account.  But  what  I  can't 
tell  is  the  politics  of  it.  Is  it  collusion,  philanthropy, 
or  fear?  Is  it  wise?  After  all,  the  unusual  is  not 
necessarily  dangerous.  I  shall  double  my  money 
within  four  days  and  you  will  make  the  commissions 
in  a  perfectly  simple,  legitimate  way;  and  you  will 
think  I  am  a  pretty  sane  lunatic ;  and  you  will  respect 
me  for  having  such  sources  of  information;  and  if  I 
can  induce  Mrs.  Le — my  friend  to  take  it,  I'll  make 
a  million  for  her  in  a  month,  and  you  will  get  the 
benefits  accruing  from  having  the  market  named 
after  you — a  Richards  &  Tuttle  market,  the  papers 
will  call  it.  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kindness. 
I'll  be  down  to-morrow  before  the  opening.  Good 
day,  sir!" 

And  Mr.  Robison  left  the  office  with  a  calm,  con 
fident  look  in  his  face.  Richards  gazed  after  him, 
a  look  of  perplexity  on  his  own  face.  Presently  he 
shook  his  head.  It  meant  that  he  gave  up  efforts 
to  solve  the  puzzle,  but  that  he  would  wait  until 
commissions  began. 


IV 

From  Richards  &  Tuttle's  office  Robison  went  to 
the  nearest  Western  Union  office  and  gave  a  letter  to 
the  manager. 

"Send  this  at  once!  City  editor,  Evening  World, 
Park  Row.  No  answer.  How  much?" 

The  manager  told  him.  Robison  paid  him  and 
then  went  to  the  Postal-Telegraph  office  and  sent  a 
message  to  the  city  editor,  Evening  Journal.  Inside 

67 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

of  each  envelope  was  a  letter.     Both  read  alike,  as 
follows: 

DEAR  SIR, — Three  years  ago  one  of  your  reporters  did  me  a 
good  turn.  In  return  I  promised  to  tip  him  off  if  ever  I  came 
across  a  big  piece  of  news.  He  saved  me  from  being  wrongly 
sent  to  state  prison.  Things  looked  pretty  black  for  me,  though 
I  was  not  guilty.  I've  forgotten  his  name.  He  looked  to  be 
twenty-eight  or  thirty  years  old,  about  five  foot  ten,  not  very 
heavy-built,  smooth-shaven,  dark-brown  hair,  and  wore  eye 
glasses.  He  had  on  a  dark-blue  serge  suit  and  was  always 
smoking  cigarettes.  It  happened  on  Chambers  Street,  not  far 
from  the  Irving  Bank.  Ask  him  if  he  remembers  my  promise 
to  pay  him  back  for  being  good  to  me.  Here  is  where  I  do  it. 
Mr.  W.  H.  Garrettson,  the  banker  and  promoter,  is  going  to 
be  kidnapped.  The  plans  are  all  made.  He  will  be  held  for 
one  hundred  million  dollars  ransom,  and  no  harm  will  come 
to  him,  because  he  will  be  sure  to  pay. 

Don't  warn  the  police  of  this,  because  the  other  papers  would 
get  it  and  you  would  lose  your  scoop.  You  can  warn  Garrettson 
if  you  wish,  but  it  will  be  useless,  as  in  that  event  we  should 
wait  until  vigilance  relaxes,  as  it  will  surely  do.  Please  do  not 
think  this  is  a  crazy  yarn !  Don't  print  anything  now.  Simply 
be  ready,  with  photographs  of  Garrettson,  his  home,  art-gallery, 
bank,  list  of  his  promotions,  and  corporations  controlled  by  him, 
and  so  on.  Keep  this  letter  for  reference,  and  just  before  you 
throw  it  into  the  waste-basket  remember  this:  It  costs  you 
nothing;  «it  commits  you  to  nothing,  involves  no  expense; 
there  is  no  concealed  dynamite  and  no  fool  joke.  Remember 
my  writing  and  my  signature,  and  wait  for  the  tip  I  shall  send 
you  if  I  possibly  can,  so  that  you  alone  publish  the  news. 

GRATEFUL  FRIEND. 

The  city  editors  thought  it  was  a  crank's  letter  and 
threw  it  away,  but  each  made  a  mental  note — in 
case!  Also  they  did  not  "tip  off"  anybody.  They 
afterward  stated  that  they  said  nothing  to  Garrett 
son,  because  if  they  acted  on  every  freak  missive 
they  received  half  the  city  would  not  sleep.  They 

68 


THE    PANIC    OF    THE    LION 

thus  were  ready  for  the  kidnapping  of  the  great 
Garret  t  son. 

At  nine-forty-five  on  Tuesday  morning  Mr.  James 
B.  Robison,  accompanied  by  an  office-boy  and  an 
order-pad  on  which  was  printed  "From  J.  B.  R., 
for  Richards  &  Tuttle,"  went  to  the  Broad  Street 
entrance  of  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange.  His  gaze 
was  fixed  steadily  on  the  Subtreasury,  or  so  it  seemed 
to  the  office-boy.  At  nine-fifty-two  he  exclaimed: 

"There  he  is!" 

The  office-boy,  Sweeney,  looking  in  the  same  di 
rection,  saw  nothing  but  hurrying  pedestrians  and  a 
carriage  or  two.  Robison  seemed  so  disappointed 
that  the  office-boy  out  of  kindness  asked,  sympa 
thetically,  "Who,  sir?" 

"Nobody!"  answered  Mr.  Robison,  shortly.  "Go 
back  to  the  office  and  tell  Mr.  Richards  to  send  me 
the  clerk  he  promised  me — the  clerk  with  the  ticker 
deafness,  tell  him.  I'll  wait  here." 

The  boy  left  and  presently  returned  with  one  of 
the  bookkeepers. 

"Here  is  Mr.  Manley,"  the  office-boy  told  Mr. 
Robison. 

"Thank  you.  Here  is  something  for  you,  my 
boy.  Go  back  to  the  office." 

The  office-boy  put  the  five-dollar  bill  in  his  pocket, 
said  "Thank  you"  in  a  voice  celestial,  and  hurried 
away  before  the  crazy  Frenchman  with  the  Cape 
Cod  voice  discovered  the  size  of  the  tip.  To  Man- 
ley,  the  clerk,  Mr.  Robison  said : 

' '  Look  across  the  street — W.  H.  Garrettson  &  Co. 
You  can  see  Mr.  Garrettson  by  the  window.  See 
him?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

69 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Well,  just  you  stay  here  and  watch  him;  and  if 
you  see  him  do  anything  unusual  or  if  anything 
happens  in  Garrett son's  office  that  you  think  strange, 
run  to  our  office  and  let  me  know.  I'll  be  waiting 
for  you.  Don't  be  afraid  to  say  so  if  you  think 
something  unusual  is  going  on,  because  I  tell  you 
now  that  Mr.  Garrettson  never  does  anything 
unusual." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Now  what  would  you  call  unusual?" 

"What  would  you?" 

"If  a  bareheaded  man  came  out  of  the  office, 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  steps  and  threw  an  egg  into 
the  middle  of  the  street,  I'd  call  it  unusual." 

"So  would  I." 

"Especially  if  I  went  up  to  the  smashed  egg  and 
found  the  insides  were  of  ink.  It  might  be  red  ink 
or  black." 

"That  would  be  queer!" 

"Exactly.  You  watch.  Go  to  lunch  at  twelve- 
thirty  and  be  back  at  one.  Remember!  Watch 
closely,  and  if  anything  unusual  happens  look  care 
fully  and  then  come  and  tell  me.  Here's  ten  dollars 
for  you." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"It's  only  a  beginning,"  smiled  Mr.  Robison, 
promisingly. 

Manley,  the  clerk,  put  the  money  in  his  pocket  and 
began  to  think  he  might  be  able  to  buy  the  motor- 
boat  next  spring  if  this  business  kept  up. 

Between  what  Sweeney,  the  office-boy,  suspected 
aloud  and  what  Manley,  the  clerk,  confirmed  the 
office  force  of  Richards  &  Tuttle  discussed  Mr. 
Robison  with  the  zest  of  the  deciding  baseball  game. 

70 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

Richards  had  confided  to  his  intimates  some  of 
his  experiences,  and  Amos  Kidder,  the  Evening  Planet 
man,  was  as  interested  in  the  mystery  as  if  he  had  not 
been  the  man  who  first  let  loose  the  flood  of  surmise 
by  introducing  Robison  to  the  brokers. 

Nothing  happened  on  Tuesday  more  exciting  than 
keeping  tally  on  the  telegrams  and  cables  received  by 
Mr.  Robison,  which  amounted  to  thirty-seven  in  all. 
The  object  of  so  much  conjecture — and  hero  of  the 
office-boy's  improvised  dime  novel — spent  the  day  in 
an  arm-chair  looking  at  the  blackboard,  making 
elaborate  calculations  that  convinced  other  cus 
tomers  he  must  be  a  ' '  chart  fiend. ' '  At  three  o'clock 
sharp  he  went  home. 

He  stopped  long  enough  to  send  by  messenger- 
boy  a  letter  to  the  city  editor  of  the  Evening  World 
and  another  to  the  city  editor  of  the  Evening  Journal. 
They  bore  the  same  message  and  said : 

Refer  to  my  letter  of  yesterday.  To-night  W.  H.  Garrettson 
goes  to  the  opera  to  see  "The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna."  He 
will  leave  the  Metropolitan  in  his  automobile.  In  it  will  be 
his  wife,  his  daughter,  and  his  friend,  Harry  Willett.  And  he 
will  not  arrive  at  his  house — Lexington  Avenue  and  Thirty- 
eighth  Street.  Somewhere  between  the  Opera  House  and  his 
residence  he  will  vanish!  It  will  be  the  most  mysterious  kid 
napping  on  record.  Follow  the  Garrettson  motor  and  have  your 
reporters  watch  carefully. 

GRATEFUL  FRIEND. 

Whatever  the  city  editors  may  have  intended  to  do 
in  the  matter  is  of  no  consequence,  because  at  seven 
o'clock  messages  were  received  as  follows: 

Kidnapping  of  W.  H.  G.  postponed.    Will  keep  you  posted. 

GRATEFUL  FRIEND. 


THE    PLUNDERERS 


At  nine-forty-five  on  Wednesday  morning  Mr. 
James  B.  Robison  entered  the  office  of  Richards  & 
Tuttle,  sought  the  senior  partner,  and  said : 

"I  shall  both  buy  and  sell  Con.  Steel — or  pos 
sibly  sell  first  and  buy  later.  The  order  clerk 
knows  about  my  printed  slips.  The  orders  will 
go  to  you  first.  If  at  any  time  you  are  worried 
about  margin,  remember  to  tell  me  at  once,  be 
cause,  as  you  know,  I  have  not  yet  used  half  of 
my  letter  of  credit;  and,  besides,  the  cables  are 
working.  I'd  like  to  see  Amos  Kidder." 

"He's  in  his  office." 

"Would  you  mind  having  some  one  telephone  to 
him?  Thank  you." 

Mr.  Robison  promptly  left  the  office,  followed  by 
his  faithful  attendant  Sweeney,  the  office-boy.  They 
took  their  stand  just  north  of  the  Broad  Street 
entrance  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 

It  was  not  long  before  Amos  Kidder,  of  the  Evening 
Planet,  who  had  received  the  message,  found  Mr. 
Robison  in  the  act  of  gazing  unblinkingly  toward  the 
Subtreasury. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Robison." 

Mr.  Robison  started  as  if  he  had  been  rudely 
awakened  out  of  a  profound  reverie. 

"Oh!  Kidder!  How  d'ye  do?  Ah,  yes!  Ah— I'd 
like  you  to  dine  with  me  and  a  few  friends — interest 
ing  people.  You  will — don't  be  offended ! — you  will 
learn  why  all  newspaper  articles  on  the  stock-market 
arouse  mirth  among  the  people  who  pull  the  wires. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"I  say,"  replied  Kidder,  with  a  good-natured  smile, 

72 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

"just  this:  When  and  where?"  His  smile  ceased. 
Mr.  Robison  had  turned  his  back  on  his  friend. 
Kidder  heard  a  nasal  mumble  and  made  out: 

"Here  in  eight  minutes." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  shall  learn  if  the  Lion  ate  the  man  or  if  it's  a 
case  of  another  day." 

"Mr.  Robison,  I  don't  understand — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  thinking  of  the  old 
man  who  was  seen  in  a  front  seat  at  the  circus  every 
day.  They  asked  him  what  he  found  so  interesting, 
and  he  said  that  some  day  the  lion  would  eat  the  man 
and  he  wanted  to  be  a  spectator.  Well,  one  day  he 
was  sick.  That  day  the  lion  ate  the  lion-tamer. 
Well,  I  am  here  waiting  to  see  Garret tson  come  out 
of  the  cage." 

"Garrettson?" 

"The  great  W.  H.  Garrettson!  I  am  planning  a 
campaign  in  Con.  Steel.  Garrettson's  health  is 
important.  I  must  consider  the  state  of  his  liver  as 
carefully  as  the  condition  of  the  iron  trade,  because 
it  is  not  only  a  question  of  the  dividend  rate,  but 
of  the  price  per  share — not  alone  an  investment,  but 
a  speculation.  You  can't  lose  all  your  mills  and 
furnaces  in  one  minute  and  you  can't  destroy  all 
your  customers  overnight;  but  Garrettson  can  die 
in  a  second!" 

"Of  course  that  contingency  has  been  provided  for. 
His  firm  would  undoubtedly  be  on  the  job." 

"So  would  the  undertaker.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
everything  to-day  depends  upon  the  character  of 
Garrettson's  life.  Have  you  ever  stopped  to  think 
of  how  much  depends  upon  the  character  of  his 
death?" 

6  73 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"All  deaths  are  alike.  You  talk  like  a  novelist 
unaware  of  the  resources  of  a  firm  like  Garrett son's." 

"And  you  talk  like  a  plain  ass  or  a  bank  president, 
my  boy.  Is  there  no  difference  to  the  stock-market 
between  the  death  of  Garrettson  by  pneumonia 
and  his  death  by  lynching  at  the  hands  of  a  thousand 
indignant  fellow-citizens?  Stop  and  think." 

"Oh,  well,  that  will  never  happen." 

"I  cannot  swear  that  it  will,  but  you  cannot 
guarantee  that  it  never  will.  Stranger  things  have 
come  to  pass.  By  Jingo!  it's  three  minutes  to 
ten!  Would  it  not  be  curious  if  something  had 
happened?" 

' '  How  do  you  mean  ?' ' 

"I  have  studied  the  great  Garrettson  and  his 
habits,  that  I  may,  in  my  operations  in  Con.  Steel, 
know  on  what  to  bank  and  against  what  to  guard. 
He  leaves  his  Lexington  Avenue  house  every  morn 
ing  at  nine  and  arrives  at  his  office  not  later  than 
nine-fifty.  He  is  like  the  clock.  All  his  life  he  has 
come  down- town  in  his  coupe,  driven  by  a  coachman 
who  has  been  in  his  employ  thirty  years.  In  this 
age  of  novelties  that  old-fashioned  coupe  suggests  a 
stability  and  solid  respectability  comparable  to 
Founded  1732!  on  a  firm's  letter-head.  However, 
just  as  the  wireless  has  introduced  a  new  element 
into  maritime  life,  so  has  the  automobile  changed  the 
character  of  street  traffic.  Do  you  remember  the 
case  of  James  M.  Barrier,  the  famous  sculptor, 
smashed  in  his  taxicab  on  his  way  to  his  studio? 
You  remember  the  insurance  advertisements,  and 
how  he  carried  a  two-hundred-and-seventeen-thou- 
sand-dollar  accident  policy?  Well,  it's  ten  o'clock. 
In  one  minute,  if  Garrettson  is  not  here,  I  shall  sell 

74 


THE    PANIC    OF   THE    LION 

short  one  thousand  shares  of  Con.  Steel.     For  each 
delay  of  one  minute,  one  thousand  shares." 

Robison  looked  impressive,  but  the  newspaper 
man  was  unimpressed. 

''You'll  have  the  pleasure  of  covering  when  he 
arrives  as  usual.  Your  operation  is  of  the  kind 
that  sounds  wise." 

"How  much  do  I  stand  to  lose  by  covering,  say, 
in  a  few  minutes?  A  fraction!  How  much  do  I 
stand  to  gain  if  something  has  happened?  Five  or 
ten  points!  It's  a  fifty-to-one  shot.  I'll  take  it 
every  time.  Here,  boy,  rush  this  to  the  office  and 
hurry  back.  Tell  Mr.  Richards  I  shall  need  another 
boy  besides  you,  for  a  few  minutes  only." 

Young  Sweeney  hurried  away  with  Robison's  order 
to  sell  one  thousand  shares  of  Con.  Steel  "at  the 
market." 

"There  are  men  who  will  risk  money  on  the  shadow 
cast  by  a  human  hair,"  observed  Kidder,  pleasantly. 
"In  assuming  that  disaster  has  overtaken  Gar- 
rettson — " 

"I  assume  nothing.  I  know  that  something  un 
usual  has  happened!  What  the  nature  of  it  is  I 
know  not — nor  whether  it  is  capitalizable,  sight 
unseen.  Here,  boy!"  Sweeney  had  returned  with 
a  colleague  and  Robison  sent  the  new  boy  back  with 
an  order  to  sell  two  thousand  shares  of  Steel.  Watch 
in  hand,  Robison  stood  staring  unblinkingly  toward 
the  north.  Kidder  also  looked  up  Nassau  Street, 
expecting  and — such,  alas,  is  human  nature ! — hoping 
to  see  Garrettson's  familiar  coupe. 

"Here,  boy!"  And  Robison  sent  off  another 
selling-order.  He  kept  this  up  until  he  had  put  out 
a  short  line  of  ten  thousand  shares. 

75 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

At  ten-fifteen  he  said  to  Kidder: 

"Let  us  go  over  to  Garrettson's  office.  His  non- 
arrival  is  news,  Kidder." 

"He  may  have  stopped  on  the  way  to  do  some 
shopping— 

"Well,  that's  a  story!  Any  deviation  from  the 
normal  is,  even  though  it  may  not  be  tragedy.  The 
delay  may  mean — " 

"Nothing  whatever,"  finished  Kidder,  a  trifle 
exultingly.  "There  comes  Garrettson's  carriage.  I 
guess  you'd  better  cover!" 

And  the  Planet  man  laughed. 

"Kidder,  you'll  never  be  rich!  Of  course  I  shall 
not  cover  until  I  know  the  reason  for  the  delay. 
Make  haste!  I  ought  to  take  a  good  look  at  his 
face.  I  want  to  see  how  he  looks  and  notice  how 
he  walks  up  the  steps  to  the  office.  One  glimpse 
of  Harriman  getting  off  the  train  once  put  a  cool 
quarter  of  a  million  in  my  pocket." 

"Stocks  went  up  when  he  died.  People  sold  them 
thinking — " 

"When  you  know  a  man  is  dying  and  you  know 
that  the  rabble  doesn't  know  it,  you  don't  always 
sell  stocks  short,  Kidder,"  anticipated  Robison,  with 
a  gentle  smile. 

"Hello!"  said  Kidder,  and  ran  forward. 

Robison  followed.  The  coupe  had  stopped  be 
fore  the  door  of  the  banking  firm's  offices.  The 
herculean  private  policeman  in  gray  had  hastened 
to  open  the  door  of  the  chief's  carriage  and  had 
staggered  back  as  if  horrified  by  what  he  had 
seen. 

"Murdered!"  thought  the  newspaper  man  in  a 
flash.  "What  a  story!" 

76 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

The  policeman  turned  an  alarmed  face  toward 
the  coachman  and  asked: 

"Where's  Mr.  Garrettson?" 

"What!"  Lyman,  the  coachman,  who  had  been 
in  Garrettson's  employ  thirty-odd  years,  turned 
livid.  He  stared  blankly  at  the  big  man  in  the  gray 
uniform. 

"He  isn't  here!"  said  Allcock,  the  policeman. 
Kidder  and  Robison  heard  him. 

The  coachman  looked  into  the  coupe. 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered. 

"Are  you  sure  he  was  inside?"  asked  Allcock. 

"Sure?  Of  course!  There's  the  newspapers.  Look 
at  the  cigar-ashes  on  the  floor." 

"Did  you  see  him  get  in?"  persisted  the  policeman. 

"Of  course  I  saw  him!  I  heard  him  call  to  the 
footman,  who  was  going  back  to  the  house  without 
leaving  the  newspapers." 

"And  you  didn't  stop  anywhere?" 

"No.  I  was  delayed  a  little  at  Twelfth  Street  and 
Fourth  Avenue,  and  again — " 

"Are  you  sure  he  didn't  jump  off?" 

"What  would  he  be  jumping  off  for?"  queried 
the  old  coachman,  irritably.  "And  wouldn't  I  have 
heard  the  door  slam?  I  can't  account  for  it!  My 
God!  Where's  Mr.  Garrettson?  Where  is  he? 
Where  is  he?"  He  repeated  himself  like  one  dis 
traught. 

"Could  he  have  jumped  out  without  your  know 
ing  it?"  queried  Kidder. 

"Shut  up,  Jim.  That's  a  reporter!"  the  police 
man  warned  the  coachman.  "Wait  here  and  I'll 
tell  Mr.  Jenkins." 

The  private  policeman  rushed  into  the  bank,  and 

77 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

rushed  out,  followed  by  William  P.  Jenkins,  junior 
partner  of  W.  H.  Garrettson  &  Company. 

"What  is  all  this  about?"  Mr.  Jenkins,  who 
had  been  speaking  in  a  sharp  voice  to  the  coach 
man,  caught  sight  of  Kidder.  Nothing  concerning 
Mr.  Garrettson's  whereabouts  could  be  discussed  by 
or  before  newspaper  men. 

"Come  with  me,  James,"  Mr.  Jenkins  said,  per 
emptorily,  to  the  old  coachman. 

"Get  on  the  job!"  whispered  Robison  to  Kidder. 
"Don't  be  bluffed.  You've  got  enough  to  raise 
the  dickens  if  printed.  It's  the  scoop  of  a  life 
time!" 

Amos  Kidder  nodded  eagerly.  He  had  ceased  to 
think  of  Robison 's  eccentricities  and  was  occupied 
with  the  disappearance  of  the  great  financier.  He 
followed  Jenkins  and  the  coachman  into  the  office, 
but  all  efforts  to  listen  to  their  colloquy  were  in  vain. 
He  could  see  perturbation  plainly  printed  on  the 
face  of  Mr.  Jenkins,  for  all  that  Garrettson's  junior 
partner  was  one  of  the  master  bluffers  of  Wall 
Street  and  a  consummate  artist  at  poker.  The 
newspaper  man  was,  moreover,  fortunate  enough  to 
overhear  Mr.  Jenkins's  private  secretary  say: 

"Mrs.  Garrettson  says  Mr.  Garrettson  left  the 
house  about  nine-twenty  in  the  carriage,  as  usual. 
The  butler  saw  him  get  in;  the  footman  helped  him 
into  the  cab.  She  wanted  to  know  what  had  hap 
pened.  I  said,  'Nothing  that  I  know  of." 

Jenkins  nodded  approval  of  the  typical  financier's 
evasion  and  hastened  back  to  the  private  office, 
where  the  cross-examination  of  the  coachman — a  man 
above  suspicion — was  carried  on  by  the  other  part 
ners. 

78 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

Amos  Kidder  had  heard  enough.  He  rushed  out 
and,  accompanied  by  the  patient  Robison,  tele 
phoned  to  his  office  this  bulletin: 

W.  H.  Garrettson  left  his  residence  in  Lexington  Avenue 
near  Thirty-eighth  Street  this  morning  as  usual  in  his  coupe", 
driven  by  James  Lyman,  his  coachman.  Lyman,  who  has  been 
in  the  employ  of  the  family  from  boyhood,  declares  positively 
that  Mr.  Garrettson  got  in  as  usual.  He  was  smoking  one  of 
his  famous  $2.17  cigars  and  had  all  the  daily  newspapers. 
These  and  cigar-ashes  were  all  that  could  be  seen  in  the  coupe 
when  it  reached  the  Wills  Building,  at  Broad  and  Wall  streets, 
where  the  offices  of  W.  H.  Garrettson  &  Company  are.  His 
partners  are  unable  to  say  where  the  multimillionaire  promoter 
is  to  be  found.  Mrs.  Garrettson  is  equally  positive  that  Mr. 
Garrettson  left  the  house  as  usual.  The  butler  saw  him  get  in. 
Nobody -saw  him  get  out.  What  makes  this  remarkable  is  that 
Mr.  Garrettson  is  punctuality  itself  and  not  once  in  forty  years 
has  he  failed  to  reach  his  office  before  ten  o'clock.  His  dis 
appearance  from  the  coupe"  is  not  thought  to  be  a  joke;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  reason  to  apprehend  a  tragedy. 
"It  is  mysterious — that's  all,"  remarked  a  prominent  Wall 
Street  man;  "and  mysteries  are  not  always  profitable  in  the 
stock-market!" 

"How  long,"  inquired  Robison,  as  Kidder  came 
out  of  the  telephone-booth,  "will  it  be  before  the 
Evening  Planet,  with  your  account  of  the  non-arrival 
of  Garrettson,  is  out  on  the  street?" 

"Well,"  said  Kidder,  looking  a  trifle  important, 
"if  it  had  been  any  one  else  who  telephoned  a  story 
of  that  importance  time  would  be  wasted  in  verify 
ing  it,  but  my  story  ought  to  be  out  in  five  minutes!" 

"As  quickly  as  that?" 

"Well,  maybe  seven  minutes — but  that,"  said 
Kidder,  impressively,  "would  be  slow  work  for  the 
Evening  Planet!" 

79 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Amazing!"  murmured  Robison,  in  a  congratula 
tory  tone.  "And  did  you  make  it  clear  that  there 
was  no  explanation  for  the  non-arrival  of — " 

"I  said  it  had  not  been  explained  as  yet.  A  man 
isn't  kidnapped  in  broad  daylight  in  the  city  of 
New  York — taken  out  of  his  own  cab  and  carried 
away.  If  conscious,  he  would  have  shouted  to  the 
coachman;  if  unconscious,  he  would  have  attracted 
attention.  It  can't  be  done!" 

* '  No,  it  can't, ' '  agreed  Robison.  ' '  Nevertheless,  it 
has  been  done." 

"How  could—" 

"Kidder,  the  taxicab  has  introduced  a  new  and 
easily  utilizable  possibility  into  criminal  affairs, 
against  which  the  police  cannot  yet  protect  the 
public.  I  can  see  one,  two,  three,  five,  ten,  fourteen 
different  ways  in  which  Mr.  Garrettson  could  have 
been  abducted  from  his  own  carriage,  put  into  a 
taxi,  and  carried  away.  Suppose  there  are  six  taxis. 
Three  are  in  front  to  prevent  the  coachman  from 
passing  them.  The  coachman  is  also  compelled  to 
regulate  his  speed  according  as  they  desire.  Then 
put  one  taxi  on  each  side  and  one  behind.  These 
taxis  not  only  escort  the  cab;  they  pocket  it  and 
keep  out  help.  At  one  of  the  many  halts  the  cab 
door  is  opened  and  Garrettson  induced  to  enter  one 
of  the  side  taxis  while  the  coachman  is  occupied 
taking  care  of  his  horses  because  one  of  the  taxis 
in  front  threatens  to  back,  which  will  crush  the 
prancing  beasts.  Do  you  suppose  the  coachman, 
especially  if  he  is  elderly  and  somewhat  deaf,  as 
all  old  people  are,  could  hear  a  cry  for  help  with  six 
taxis  making  all  the  noise  they  can,  muffler  cutouts 
going,  or  backfiring,  or — " 

80 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

"Do  you  think  that  is—" 

"I  think  nothing!  I  cited  it  as  one  of  fourteen — 
indeed,  twenty — possible  ways,"  said  Robison,  qui 
etly. 

1  'It's  funny — I  mean  it  is  a  curious  coincidence 
that  on  the  one  day  you  had  sold  Steel  short— 

"My  young  friend,"  interrupted  Robison,  gravely, 
"I  sold  after  Garrettson  was  late!  Wisdom  is  always 
accused  of  unfairness.  A  man  whose  mind  enables 
him  to  win  steadily  at  cards  is  invariably  suspected 
of  marking  them.  I  had  planned  to  buy  Con.  Steel 
provided  Garrett son's  health,  state  of  mind,  and 
trade  conditions  satisfied  me !  Instead  I  sold  a  little 
because  of  his  delay.  Why,  man,  we  did  that  in 
London  once — Cecil  Rhodes  and  I — when  Barney 
Barnato,  at  the  height  of  the  Kaffir  craze,  suddenly 
decided — " 

"Wait  till  I  get  a  piece  of  paper,"  said  Amos 
Kidder.  He  saw  a  big  story.  But  Robison  said : 

"I'll  tell  you  all  you  wish  to  know — if  you  prom 
ise  not  to  use  names — in  Richards' s  office  later,  when 
Garrettson's  disappearance  is  officially  admitted. 
You  should  hang  round  Garrettson's  office.  Don't 
lose  sight  of  it  for  one  minute !  Your  office  will  keep 
in  touch — " 

"Yes;  they  are  sending  three  men  down  to  work 
under  me." 

"Keep  me  posted,  will  you?  I  am  going  to  Rich- 
ards's  office  and  watch  the  market." 

Kidder  nodded  and  hurried  to  the  Wills  Building. 
Robison  went  to  the  office  of  his  brokers,  stopping 
previously  at  a  telephone  pay-station  to  telephone 
to  the  city  editors  of  the  Evening  World  and  the 
Evening  Journal.  This  was  his  message: 

81 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

The  Evening  Planet  is  getting  out  an  extra  about  the  disap 
pearance  of  W.  H.  Garrettson.  Send  your  men  to  Garrettson's 
office  and  also  his  residence.  Hurry! 

The  Evening  Planet  story  was  on  the  street  before 
Robison  returned  to  Richards  &  Tuttle's  office,  and 
five  minutes  later  World  and  Journal  extras  were 
selling  in  the  financial  district.  Curiously  enough, 
both  papers  used  the  same  scare-head,  and  that  fact 
had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  acceptance  of  the 
story  by  many  people.  The  heading  was: 

HELD  FOR  RANSOM!! 

And  each  stated  it  had  information  that  W.  H. 
Garrettson  had  been  kidnapped  and  was  held  for 
one  hundred  million  dollars  ransom.  The  Wall 
Street  news  agencies  sent  out  the  news  on  the 
tickers.  One  of  them  subtly  finished: 

Those  who  know  Mr.  Garrettson  state  that  the  two  things 
the  greatest  financier  of  our  times  cannot  do  are:  first,  take 
advice;  and  second,  be  coerced.  A  man  who  has  compelled 
a  President  of  the  United  States  to  come  to  him  for  advice, 
and  who  has  flatly  told  a  reigning  monarch,  No!  is  not  going 
to  do  as  he  is  told  by  any  band  of  crooks!  The  worst  is,  there 
fore,  to  be  feared! 

VI 

For  one  brief  dazed  moment  the  stock-market 
hesitated!  Then  suddenly  the  ticker  stopped,  as  it 
did  in  the  old  days  whenever  a  member's  demise  was 
announced.  The  ticker's  silence,  with  its  suggestion 
of  death,  did  in  truth  strangle  bull  hopes.  Ten 
thousand  gamblers'  hearts  almost  stopped  when  the 
ticker  did.  Then  the  storm  burst,  increasing  in 

82 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

violence  as  corroboration  came  from  newspaper 
extras,  from  the  Wall  Street  news  agencies  and  the 
news  tickers,  from  brokers  and  bankers  who  had 
rushed  to  the  offices  of  W.  H.  Garrettson  &  Com 
pany  and  had  rushed  out  again  to  sell  stocks.  And 
for  one  fatal  moment  the  great  house  of  W.  H.  Gar 
rettson  &  Company  was  guilty  of  the  capital  crime — 
in  high  finance — of  indecision. 

The  stock-market  at  times  suggests  a  reservoir — • 
the  selling-power  is  liquefied  fear.  Like  water,  all 
it  asks  is  one  tiny  crevice — a  beginning! — and  it 
will  itself  complete  the  havoc. 

Inside  support — that  is,  buying  by  Garrettson 's 
firm — would  have  been  the  only  effective  denial 
of  the  alarming  rumors.  Therefore,  in  the  brief 
instant  that  saw  absolutely  no  "support"  forth 
coming  the  flood  of  selling-orders  raged  down  upon 
the  stock-market,  carrying  with  it  big  margins  and 
little  margins  and  minus  margins,  fortunes  and  hopes 
and  reputations. 

The  price  of  Con.  Steel  declined  faster  and  faster 
as  the  volume  of  selling-orders  grew  larger.  It  was 
the  snowball  rolling  down  the  hillside.  From  sixty- 
eight  it  went  to  sixty-seven ;  to  sixty-six ;  to  sixty- 
five  by  fractions.  Then  it  broke  whole  points  at  a 
time — to  sixty;  to  fifty-five!  In  fifteen  frightful, 
unforgetable  minutes  the  capital  stock  of  the  Con 
solidated  Steel  Corporation  shrank  in  value  fifteen 
million  dollars — one  million  a  minute!  A  psycho 
logical  statistician  would  have  figured  that  this 
million  a  minute  was  the  tribute  of  the  moneyed 
world  to  the  great  Garret t son's  reputation  for 
financial  invulnerability;  it  was  the  cost  of  the  blow 
to  his  prestige,  the  result  of  his  partners'  inefficiency 

83 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

during  the  one  crucial  moment  of  the  firm's  existence. 
The  partners  would  have  understood  death  and 
could  have  provided  against  it,  stock-marketwise. 
It  is  likely  that  they  even  might  have  capitalized 
their  senior  partner's  demise  had  it  come  from 
typhoid,  tuberculosis,  or  taxicab.  But  the  disap 
pearance  of  the  great  Garrettson,  the  fatal  incer 
titude,  the  black  ignorance,  the  fearing  and  the  hop 
ing,  paralyzed  the  faculties  of  the  junior  partners  of 
Wall  Street's  mighty  firm.  And  the  costliness  of 
their  indecision  was  raised  into  the  millions  by  the 
fact  that,  just  as  Jenkins,  Johnson,  and  Lane,  the 
junior  partners,  agreed  that  Garrettson,  though  ab 
sent,  was  well,  and  were  about  to  take  steps  to 
check  the  gamblers'  panic,  the  telephone  summoned 
Jenkins. 

"Hello!  Is  this  Mr.  Jenkins?  Good.  This  is  Dr. 
Pierson.  Come  at  once  to  Mr.  Garrettson,  Hotel 
Cressline,  Suite  D.  No,  not  B — D !  Say  nothing  to 
the  family!  Hurry!"  And  the  speaker  rang  off. 

His  face  livid  with  apprehension,  visibly  tortured 
by  the  still  unrelieved  uncertainty,  Jenkins  turned  to 
Walter  Johnson,  the  youngest  and — Wall  Street  said 
— the  cleverest  of  Garrettson 's  partners,  and  repeated 
the  message. 

"Was  it  Dr.  Pierson's  voice?"  asked  Johnson. 

"I  don't  know — yes;  I  think  it  was.  He  said, 
'This  is  Dr.  Pierson,'  and  I  didn't  suspect — yes;  I 
think  it  was."  After  a  second's  pause,  "I  know  it 
was  Pierson!" 

"Then,  for  Heaven's  sake — "  began  Lane. 

"Your  knowledge  of  Pierson's  voice,  Jenkins,  is 
vitiated  by  your  obvious  wish.  Call  up  Dr.  Pierson's 
office,  of  course!"  said  Johnson. 

84 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

"Meantime  we  are  losing  precious  time- 
Johnson  had  already  gone  to  the  desk  telephone 
and  asked  for  Dr.  Pierson's  office.     To  his  partner 
he  said,  the  receiver  at  his  ear: 

"We  have  all  eternity  before  us  to  solve  the  prob 
lem  if — "  The  emphasis  on  the  conditional  particle 
indicated  so  clearly  his  meaning  that  there  was  no 
need  to  say  it.  "You  need  not  go  on  a  wild-goose 
chase,  and  we  hoping  and  expecting  and  uncertain 
if—  Hello!  Dr.  Pierson's  office?  This  is  Mr. 
Johnson,  of  W.  H.  Garrettson  &  Company.  Is  the 
doctor  there?  Out?  Where  did  he  go?  Speak  out — 
I  am  Mr.  Garrettson's  partner.  Hotel  Cressline, 
Suite  D?  Thank  you.'*  Johnson  turned  and  said: 
"Dr.  Pierson  was  summoned  by  telephone  to  the 
Cressline,  Suite  D,  to  attend  Mr.  Garrettson.  Hurry 
call!  I'll  get  the  hotel  and  ask—" 

"And  meantime,"  said  Jenkins,  excitedly,  "he 
might  be  dying  or  dead;  and  we — " 

"Yes!  Go!  I'll  arrange  to  have  a  telephone-line 
kept  for  our  exclusive  use.  Hurry!" 

Jenkins  rushed  madly  from  the  office  and  Johnson 
took  up  the  telephone  once  more. 

"Give  me  the  Hotel  Cressline!"  And  presently, 
"Hello!  Cressline?  This  is  W.  H.  Garrettson  & 
Company.  Yes — Mr.  Johnson,  Mr.  Garrettson's 
partner.  Is  Mr.  Gar —  .  .  .  Yes — yes — I  want  to 
talk  to  him.  .  .  .  Why  not?  Is  it  our  Mr.  Gar 
rettson  .  .  .  Here!  Hold  your  horses!  You  will 
tell  me!— or,  by  Heaven,  I'll  .  .  .  Hello !— Hello ! 
Damn  'em!" 

"What  did  they  say,  Walter?"  asked  Mr.  Lane, 
partner  and  brother-in-law  of  Garrettson. 

"He  said  I  could  go  to  hell!"  growled  Johnson, 

85 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

his  face  brick-red  from  anger;  people  did  not  talk 
that  way  to  the  partners  of  the  great  Garrettson. 
"He  said  a  Mr.  Garrettson,  accompanied  by  a 
heavily  veiled  lady,  took  Suite  D  this  morning  at 
nine-forty-five,  and  left  orders  not  to  be  interrupted 
under  any  circumstances — no  cards  sent  up,  no 
telephone  connection  made,  no  messages  of  any 
kind  delivered!" 

The  two  partners  looked  at  each  other  gravely. 
In  their  eyes  was  something  like  a  cross  between 
a  challenge  and  an  entreaty,  as  though  each  expected 
the  other  to  say  he  did  not  expect  a  terrible  final 
chapter.  In  the  veiled  woman  each  feared  what  was 
worse  than  mere  death — scandal!  Of  course,  much 
would  be  suppressed,  as  had  been  done  in  the  case 
of  Winthrop  Kyle  or  of  Burton  Willett,  to  whom 
death  had  come  suddenly  and  under  dubious  circum 
stances. 

"William  is  not  that  kind!"  said  Lane,  loyally. 
"  He  has  never—  " 

"I  know  that,  of  course.  I  don't  believe  it.  I 
don't!  I  don't!"  repeated  Walter  Johnson,  vehe 
mently. 

"Neither  do  I,"  agreed  Lane.  "But—"  He 
looked  furtively  at  Walter  Johnson. 

Johnson  nodded,  and  said,  "Yes,  that's  the  devil 
of  it!"  He  lost  himself  in  thoughts  of  how  to  sup 
press  the  scandal;  for  these  men  loved  Garrettson, 
admired  his  abilities,  gloried  in  his  might,  and  rev 
erenced  his  greatness.  They  would  rather  see  the 
firm  lose  millions  than  have  posthumous  mud  flung 
upon  the  historic  figure  of  W.  H.  Garrettson. 

That  was  the  explanation  of  why  the  ordinary 
precautions  for  staving  off  a  panic  were  not  taken 

86 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

by  the  partners.  That  was  why  they  denied  them 
selves  to  everybody  who  brought  no  news  of  Mr. 
W.  H.  Garrettson;  and  such  was  the  discipline  of 
the  office  that  no  word  was  brought  to  the  pale- 
faced  partners  in  the  inner  office  about  the  big  break 
in  stocks  or  of  the  newspaper  extras. 

It  was  the  fatal  mistake.  By  the  time  Walter 
Johnson,  by  accident  or  force  of  habit,  or  possibly 
subconsciously,  moved  by  the  telepathic  message  of 
the  ticker,  approached  the  little  instrument  the 
slump  in  stocks  had  taken  on  the  proportions  of  a 
panic. 

"Great  Scott!    Fifty-eight  for  steel!" 

"No!'*  incredulously  shouted  Lane. 

"It  11  never  do!" 

"Yes,  but—" 

Walter  Johnson,  forgetting  that  Mr.  Garrettson 
was  a  man  who  liked  to  do  things  in  his  own  way, 
rushed  out  of  the  private  office  and  began  to  give 
out  buying-orders  to  the  better-known  of  the  Gar 
rettson  brokers — they  kept  some  of  these  for  the 
effect  of  obvious  "Garrettson  buying."  It  was  all 
the  firm  could  do  to  check  the  decline.  No  matter 
what  had  happened,  the  house  of  Garrettson  must 
not  He  about  it!  Silence,  yes;  untruth,  never! 
And  yet  silence  might  be  taken  as  corroboration  of 
the  awful  stories.  He  could  not  say  that  the  great 
Garrettson  was  alive  and  could  not  say  he  was  dead. 
He  must  not  mention  Hotel  Cressline.  A  trying 
situation!  To  the  news-agency  men,  who  would 
put  out  the  news  on  the  Street,  from  whom  also  the 
daily  papers  would  get  it,  he  said,  very  calmly  and 
impressively : 

"I  know  of  no  reason  why  anybody  should  sell 

87 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Consolidated  Steel.  The  iron  trade  is  in  excellent 
shape;  the  company  is  doing  the  biggest  business  in 
its  history  at  reasonable  but  remunerative  prices, 
and  we  consider  the  stock  a  good  investment.  We 
deprecate  these  violent  speculative  movements. 
They  are  designed  to  frighten  timid  holders.  I 
advise  every  man  who  owns  Consolidated  Steel 
stock  to  hold  on  to  it." 

"But  about  Mr.  Gar—" 

"Not  another  word!"  he  said,  firmly,  with  a  smile 
that  was  a  masterpiece  of  will-power. 

The  newspaper  men  translated  it:  "Not  a  word 
about  W.  H.  Garrettson!"  And  in  the  Stock  Ex 
change  a  similar  construction  was  put  upon  the 
message.  What  was  wanted  was  to  know  whether 
the  great  Garrettson  was  dead  or  not — the  kid 
napping  was  by  now  accepted  as  a  fact! — and  if  so 
what  would  be  done  with  the  enormous  Garrettson 
holdings  of  Steel.  Wherefore  the  traders  sold  more 
of  the  same  stock — short — and  the  bona-fide  holders 
could  develop  no  conviction  strong  enough  as  to 
the  wisdom  of  holding  on,  so  long  as  the  price  con 
tinued  to  go  down. 

Jenkins  arrived  at  the  Cressline  in  time  to  find 
Dr.  Pierson  engaged  in  a  fight  with  the  office  force, 
who  would  not  show  Suite  D  to  him  or  send  up  any 
message.  But  Jenkins,  who  in  his  youth  had  been 
a  book  agent,  succeeded  in  inducing  the  management 
to  break  open  the  door  after  repeated  knocking 
brought  no  response  from  within. 

They  found  nobody  in  Suite  D.  Mr.  Garrettson 
had  vanished !  But  they  found  on  the  bureau  a  long 
lavender  automobile  veil. 

Jenkins  and  Dr.  Pierson  stared  at  each  other  in 

88 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

perplexity.  At  length  Jenkins,  red  and  uncomfort 
able,  said  to  Dr.  Pierson: 

"I  came  up  as  soon  as  I  got  your  telephone  mes 
sage;  and — " 

"I  never  telephoned  you!"  interrupted  Dr.  Pierson. 

"Why,  you  said—" 

"I  didn't  say  it.  I  came  up  here  because  I  got  a 
message  from  the  hotel — or  so  the  voice  said — to  see 
Mr.  Garrettson,  who  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill  in 
Suite  D.  His  companion,  a  young  lady,  was  with 
him." 

"Damn!"  said  Jenkins,  with  an  uneasy  look.  He 
bethought  him  of  the  office,  hastened  to  the  telephone 
and  told  Walter  Johnson  all  about  the  fake  messages 
and  Dr.  Pierson' s  story. 

"That  was  to  throw  us  off  the  scent.  Con.  Steel 
has  broken  ten  points,  and — " 

"It's  a  bear  raid  then!" 

"Yes.  But  have  the  bears  got  W.  H.  Garrettson? 
If  so,  where?  Hurry  down!" 

Meantime  in  the  office  of  Richards  &  Tuttle  Mr. 
Robison  was  carefully  following  the  course  of  the 
stock-market.  The  lower  Steel  went  the  higher 
Robison  rose  in  the  estimation  of  the  firm,  the  cus 
tomers,  and  the  office-boys. 

In  one  of  the  interludes  between  the  slumps  George 
B.  Richards  asked  in  a  voice  which  one  might  say 
sweated  respect: 

"What  do  you  think  now,  Mr.  Robison?" 

The  office  had  been  doing  a  great  business  and  the 
big  room  with  the  quotation-board  that  took  one 
side  was  crowded  with  customers.  These  customers, 
with  eyes  that  shone  greedily,  drew  near  and  frankly 
listened  to  the  colloquy.  They  were  all  happy  be- 
7  89 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

cause  they  were  all  short  of  Steel,  and  they  were  all 
short  of  Steel  because  a  mysterious  stranger  had 
scented  a  strange  mystery  ten  minutes  ahead  of 
Wall  Street. 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Robison,  absently. 

"What  do  you  think  now?" 

"What  do  I  think  now?"  repeated  Mr.  Robison, 
mechanically. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  George  B.  Richards,  in  the  tone  of 
voice  of  an  office-boy  about  to  ask  for  a  day  off. 
Robison  stared  unseeingly  at  the  broker.  Then, 
with  a  little  start,  he  said  so  distinctly  that  every 
listening  customer  heard  very  plainly: 

"I  have  not  changed  my  opinion.  When  I  do 
I'll  let  you  know." 

"It  looks  to  me,"  persisted  Richards,  fishing  for 
information,  "that  they  can't  keep  on  going  down 
forever." 

"No — not  forever,"  assented  Mr.  Robison,  calmly. 

"Maybe  the  bottom  is  not  far  off." 

"Maybe  not." 

"If  a  man  bought  now  he  might  do  well." 

"Then  buy  'em." 

"Still,  until  we  know  just  what  is  back  of  this 
break  it  isn't  safe  to  go  long." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Mr.  Robison,  with  a  polite 
nod  of  the  head,  "don't  buy  'em." 

Richards  did  not  persist,  and  with  an  effort  sub 
dued  the  desire  to  say  "Thank  you!"  in  a  most 
sarcastic  tone  of  voice.  The  disappointed  cus 
tomers  drifted  away.  To  be  told  when  to  begin 
making  money  is  great,  but  any  experienced  stock 
speculator  will  tell  you  that  it  is  even  more  im 
portant  to  be  told  when  to  stop  making  it.  The 

90 


THE    PANIC    OF    THE    LION 

tale  of  the  Un taken  Profit  is  the  jeremiad  of  the 
ticker-fiend. 

Con.  Steel  was  down  to  fifty-five  and  beginning  to 
show  "resiliency,"  as  financial  writers  used  to  say, 
when  an  office-boy  rushed  to  Mr.  Robison's  side. 
The  lad's  face  shone  with  pride  at  being  the  bearer  of 
money-making  news  to  -the  most  distinguished  of  the 
firm's  customers,  whose  paper  profits  at  that  moment 
were  about  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

"Mr.  Robison!"  he  said  in  the  distinct,  low  voice 
of  one  who  is  accustomed  to  repeating  confidential 
messages  in  a  crowded  room.  The  other  customers, 
who  were  still  hopeful  of  getting  the  tip  when  to 
cover,  looked  at  the  boy's  lips  and  listened  strain- 
ingly  to  catch  his  whispered  words. 

"Speak  up,  my  boy.  I  am  a  little  hard  of  hear 
ing,"  said  Mr.  Robison  through  his  nose,  with  a 
pleasant  smile. 

The  customers,  to  a  man,  blessed  the  catarrh  that 
caused  the  deafness  which  would  give  them  the  tip 
they  all  expected. 

"The  photographer  says  the  pictures  came  out 
very  fine  indeed." 

The  looking  and  listening  customers,  to  a  man, 
murmured,  "Stung  again!" 

"Wait  a  minute  my  lad.  Here!"  and  he  gave  the 
office-boy  a  five-dollar  bill  and  a  small  envelope. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  said  the  boy.  He 
put  the  five  dollars  in  his  pocket,  beamed  grate 
fully  on  Mr.  Robison,  gazed  pityingly  at  the  cus 
tomers,  and  looked  at  the  envelope.  It  said,  "Mr. 
Richards." 

He  gave  the  envelope  to  Mr.  Richards,  who  had 
retreated  into  the  private  office.  The  broker  opened 

91 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

it.     It  contained  one  of  Robison's  slips,  on  which  was 
written : 

Buy  twenty  thousand  Con.  Steel  at  the  market. 

J.  B.  ROBISON. 

Richards  rushed  the  order  to  the  Board  Room. 
It  helped  to  steady  the  price.  Presently  Mr. 
Richards  approached  Robison  and  sat  in  the  empty 
place  beside  him.  Feeling  that  they  were  not 
wanted,  two  polite  customers  moved  away,  ostensibly 
not  to  hear;  but  they  tried  to  listen  just  the  same. 

"Your  order  is  executed,  Mr.  Robison."  Mr. 
Richards  whispered  it  out  of  a  corner  of  his  mouth 
without  turning  his  head,  all  the  time  looking  medita 
tively  at  the  quotation-board, 

"Got  the  whole  twenty?" 

"Yes." 

"Good!" 

"Do  you  think — "  began  the  broker  in  a  voice 
that  would  make  flint  turn  to  putty. 

"  I  do !"  cut  in  Robison.  "  I  do,  indeed !  There  is 
no  telling  what  has  happened.  The  sharpness  of  the 
break  was  intensified  by  two  facts."  He  had  un 
consciously  raised  his  voice. 

A  startled  look  fastened  itself  on  the  seventeen 
faces  of  the  seventeen  customers  who  were  short  of 
Steel.  The  seventeen  owners  of  the  faces  drew 
nearer  to  Mr.  Robison,  who,  apparently  unaware  of 
having  any  other  listener  than-  Mr.  George  B. 
Richards,  went  on,  nasally  but  amiably: 

"By  two  things:  First,  the  mystery.  What  has 
become  of  Mr.  W.  H.  Garrettson?  Second:  If  the 
great  Garrettson  has  disappeared  it  must  be  because 
of  a  worse-than-death.  Many  things  can  be  worse 

92 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE   LION 

than  death,  in  the  stock-market — failure,  for  in 
stance." 

"Oh,  but  that's  out  of  the  question." 

"Yes,  it  is!  So  is  the  disappearance  of  W.  H. 
Garrettson,  one  of  the  best-known  men  in  America, 
in  broad  daylight,  in  a  crowded  and  very  efficiently 
policed  city  thoroughfare." 

"Yes;  but  a  failure— 

"When  the  Baring  Brothers  failed  Englishmen 
the  world  over  wouldn't  believe  it.  They  couldn't 
fail,  you  know!" 

"  Do  you  think— " 

"No,  I  do  not.  I  was  merely  objecting  to  the 
habit  of  loose  assertions  so  characteristic  of  Wall 
Street.  I  told  you  to  what  two  things  I  ascribed 
the  sharpness  of  the  break.  Mystery  is  the  greatest 
of  all  bull  cards,  as  you  all  know.  It  may  also  be 
made  to  work  on  the  bear  side.  Now  it  isn't  likely 
that  anything  serious  has  happened  to  Mr.  W.  H. 
Garrettson.  There  would  be  no  sense  in  murdering 
him — not  even  by  a  stock  speculator;  but,  even  if 
he  is  dead,  the  break  in  the  Garrettson  specialties 
has  by  now  discounted  that  sad  contingency.  There 
fore  I  should  say  prices  ought  to  be  touching  bottom ; 
and  what  ought  to  be  generally  is,  in  the  stock- 
market.  I  fancy  we'll  hear,  one  way  or  another, 
very  soon  now.  If  the  news  is  good  the  price  of  Steel 
will  rebound  smartly.  If  it  is  bad  we'll  at  least  know 
what  to  look  to,  and  with  the  elimination  of  the 
mystery  there  should  be  a  cessation  of  the  selling. 
There  will  follow  a  rush  to  cover  and  then—  There 
you  are!  I  believe  it's  begun  already.  Fifty-nine; 
and  a  half;  sixty;  sixty-two!  Get  'em  back!" 

The  seventeen  shorts  in  the  room  rushed  to  give 

93 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

their  orders  to  cover  and  gloomily  watched  the 
massacre  of  the  bears  as  melodramatized  in  figures 
on  the  quotation-board. 

Sixty- three !  Sixty -five !  Sixty-seven !  Higher  than 
it  had  been  before  the  newspaper  extras  came  out! 
Big  blocks  were  changing  hands.  W.  H.  Garrettson 
&  Co.  were  buying  the  stock  aggressively,  even  reck 
lessly  now.  Somebody  must  pay — and  it  wouldn't 
be  the  firm. 

Amos  Kidder  rushed  into  the  office.  ' '  He's  found !" 
he  yelled,  excitedly,  addressing  Mr.  Robison. 

"  Where  was  he?"  asked  Mr.  Robison,  very  calmly. 

"At  home — damn  'im!" 

"Why  that,  my  boy?" 

"He  won't  talk — says  he  was  in  his  library  all 
the  time." 

"We  know  better  than  that.  Don't  we,  Kidder?" 
said  Robison,  with  a  smile. 

"Yes;  but  you  don't  have  to  print  the  official 
statement  as  though  it  were  the  truth,  and  I  have. 
How  can  I  say  he  lied  when  I  can't  prove  that  he 
wasn't  in  his  library  ?  If  I  knew  the  whole  truth— 

"The  whole  truth?"  echoed  Mr.  Robison,  with 
the  shade  of  a  smile. 

"Don't  you  know  it?"  Amos  Kidder  shot  this 
at  Mr.  Robison  suspiciously. 

"Don't  make  me  laugh,  Kidder!  Nobody  knows 
the  whole  truth  about  anything.  Take  dinner  with 
me  to-morrow  night — will  you?" 

"Yes."  There  was  a  smoldering  defiance — it 
wasn't  suspicion  exactly — in  the  newspaper  man's 
voice  and  eyes. 

"Good  for  you!  Mr.  Richards,  please  sell  my 
Steel." 

94 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

"Now  that  Garrettson  is — " 

"Yes,  now — at  the  market,  carefully.  Have  I 
doubled  my  money  in  a  week?" 

"Yes." 

"I  told  you  I  would." 

"An  accident  is  not  a  fair  test  of — ' 

"An  accident  is  not  a  fair  test  of  anything,  be 
cause  there  is  no  such  thing  in  the  stock-market  as 
an  accident!  The  sooner  you  let  that  fact  seep  in 
the  better  it  will  be  for  the  bank  account  of  your 
children.  I  must  be  going  up-town  now.  Good 
night,  gentlemen." 


VII 


As  early  as  practicable  the  next  day,  after  the 
interest  had  been  figured  out  to  the  ultimate  penny, 
Mr.  James  Burnett  Robison  was  informed  by  Mr. 
George  B.  Richards  that  he  had  to  his  credit  the 
sum  of  $268,537.71  with  the  firm. 

"I've  won  my  bet!"  murmured  Mr.  Robison,  star 
ing  absently  at  the  broker. 

"You  have  indeed,  Mr.  Robison."  Richards 
spoke  deferentially. 

"H'm!  I  hope  I  can  induce  Ethel  to—  Mr. 
Richards,  I'll  thank  you  to  sign  this  paper.  There 
is  a  notary  public  up-stairs." 

This  was  the  document: 

TO   WHOM   IT   MAY   CONCERN: 

This  is  to  certify  that  on  July  18,  1912,  Mr.  James  B.  Robison 
opened  an  account  with  the  firm  of  Richards  &  Tut  tie,  bankers 
and  brokers,  members  of  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange,  by 
depositing  with  them  the  sum  of  $100,000.  On  July  23d  he 
closed  this  account,  which  showed  a  net  profit  of  $168,537.71. 

95 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

A  copy  of  the  itemized  statement,  showing  purchases  and  sales 
of  stocks  and  prices  paid  and  received,  will  be  given  to  any  one 
upon  an  order  from  Mr.  James  B.  Robison. 

For  RICHARDS  &  TUTTLE: 
GEORGE  B.  RICHARDS. 

When  Mr.  George  B.  Richards  had  signed  this 
certificate  Mr.  Robison  said,  amiably: 

"If  you  wish  I'll  give  you,  in  return,  a  letter  testi 
fying  to  the  pleasure  it  has  given  me  to  trade  in  an 
office  where  they  let  customers  more  than  double 
their  money  in  one  week." 

"Thank  you.  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  with 
draw  your  account." 

"And  I  hope  you  will  send  and  get  me  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  new,  clean  hundred-dollar  bills 
to  give  to  the  beneficiary  of  my  wager.  I  told  you 
it  was  easy  to  make  money  in  Wall  Street.  You 
wouldn't  have  given  me  a  certificate  of  sanity  a 
week  ago.  What?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  would.  But  if  you  don't  think  my  curi 
osity  impertinent — " 

"All  curiosity  in  a  stock-broker  is  a  sign  of  intelli 
gence;  and  intelligence,  my  dear  Mr.  George  B. 
Richards,  is  never  impertinent."  Mr.  Robison  smiled 
with  such  amiable  sincerity  that  Richards  felt  flat 
tered  enough  to  blush. 

"Thank  you.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  don't 
understand — "  The  broker  paused;  he  was  about 
to  inquire  into  the  personal  affairs  of  a  profitable 
customer.  He  did  not  wish  commissions  to  stop. 

Mr.  Robison  bowed  his  head  acquiescingly  and, 
as  though  it  were  his  turn  to  speak,  said: 

"It  is  always  wise  for  a  man  to  have  a  number  of 
things  he  doesn't  understand.  It  affords  occupation 

96 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

during  idle  moments,  gives  the  mind  healthy  exer 
cise,  and,  indeed,  maintains  a  salutary  interest  in 
life.  Humanity  loves  knowledge,  but  is  fascinated 
by  mystery.  Is  life  interesting  to  you  ?  Yes.  Why  ? 
Because  it  is  so  important  and  you  know  so  little 
about  it.  Is  death  interesting  to  you?  Yes.  Why? 
Because  of  death  you  know  only  the  first  letter  of 
the  first  word  of  the  first  line  of  the  first  chapter  of 
a  big,  black  book — Mystery!" 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  dazed  broker. 

Robison  continued,  cheerfully:  "My  dear  Mr. 
Richards,  by  all  means  don't  understand!  I'll  drop 
in  later  in  the  day  for  the  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
Meanwhile  pray  continue  to  be  mystified  and  un 
happy,  but  interested,  and  believe  me  your  sincere 
friend  and  well-wisher,  James  Burnett  Robison." 

With  these  words  the  man  who  looked  like  a  Paris 
dude  and  talked  like  an  actor  with  the  voice  of  a 
down-east  farmer,  whose  speech  suggested  insanity 
but  whose  deeds  yielded  him  twenty -five  thousand 
dollars  a  day,  walked  out  of  the  office  of  his  brokers. 

A  few  hours  later  he  received  ten  bundles  of  hun 
dred-dollar  bills,  which  he  carelessly  stuffed  into 
his  coat  pocket,  and  then  asked  for  a  check  for  his 
balance.  When  George  B.  Richards  regretfully  com 
plied  and  lachrymosely  hoped  Mr.  Robison  would 
reconsider  his  decision  to  close  the  account,  Mr. 
Robison  answered,  very  impressively: 

"My  dear  Mr.  Richards,  if  you  were  Rockefeller, 
would  you  work  in  a  glue-factory  for  the  pleasure 
of  it?  I  don't  need  money  and  I  hate  the  market 
place.  If  ever  I  decide  that  humanity  needs  more 
money  than  I  personally  possess  I'll  come  back  and 
take  it  out  of  Wall  Street  through  Richards  &  Tuttle, 

97 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

at  one-eighth  of  one  per  cent,  commission  and  the 
state  tax.  Good  day,  sir !"  And  he  left,  Mr.  Richards 
remembered  just  afterward  and  wondered,  without 
shaking  hands. 


VIII 


Amos  Kidder  dined  with  Mr.  Robison  that  evening 
at  Mr.  Robison's  hotel,  the  Regina. 

"Americans,"  explained  the  host,  "always  flock 
to  the  newest  hotel  on  the  theory  that  material 
progress  is  infallible  and  that  the  latest  thing  is 
necessarily  the  best  thing.  But  cooking  is  not  sani 
tary  plumbing;  it  is  an  art!  I  am  here  not  because 
of  the  journalistic,  Sunday-special  character  of  the 
filtered  air  and  automatic  temperature  adjusters  of 
this  hotel,  but  because  I  discovered  it  had  the  best 
chef  of  all  New  York  here.  The  food,"  he  finished, 
with  an  air  of  overpraising,  "is  almost  as  good  as 
in  my  own  house.  Have  you  any  favorite  dishes  or 
doctor's  diet  to  follow?" 

"No,  thank  Heaven!  I'll  eat  and  drink  whatever 
you'll  order,"  replied  the  newspaper  man. 

"Thank  you,  Kidder— thank  you!"  said  Mr.  Robi 
son,  with  an  air  of  such  profound  gratitude  that  Kid 
der  forgot  to  laugh.  "I  was  hoping  you  would 
leave  it  to  me  to  order  the  dinner;  in  fact,  it  is 
ordered.  Thank  you!"  And  he  beckoned  to  the 
mattre  d'hotel,  who  immediately  hastened  to  the 
table  and  covered  his  face  with  a  mask  of  extreme 
respectfulness.  "You  may  begin  to  serve  the  dinner, 
Antoine,"  said  Robison,  simply. 

"Dewey  at  Manila!"  thought  Kidder,  impressed 
in  spite  of  himself.  His  Wall  Street  work  and  his 


THE    PANIC    OF   THE    LION 

friendship  with  millionaires  had  accustomed  him 
to  all  sorts  of  extravagances,  but  he  admitted  to 
himself  he  had  never  eaten  so  unconsciously  well  in 
his  life.  Emboldened  by  the  dinner  and  the  heart 
warming  wine,  and  his  own  growing  affection  for 
the  curious  man  who  said  remarkable  things  through 
his  nose  and  did  remarkable  things  in  a  remarkably 
matter-of-fact  way,  Kidder  was  inspired  to  say  over 
the  coffee : 

"I'd  like  to  ask  you  two  questions- — just  two." 

"That's  one  more  than  Carlyle,  who  said  that 
man  had  but  one  question  to  ask  man,  to  wit:  'Can 
I  kill  thee  or  canst  thou  kill  me?' " 

"O  king,  live  forever!"  said  Kidder,  saluting. 

"Thanks.    Shoot  ahead." 

' '  Did  you  know  wrhat  was  going  to.  happen  or  were 
you  really  betting  on  the  chance  that  Garret t son's 
absence  meant  something  serious?"  Kidder  was 
looking  at  Robison  with  a  steady  gaze. 

"There  is,  my  dear  boy,  no  such  thing  as  chance. 
Irreligious  people  have  invented  chance  to  fill  in  a 
hiatus  otherwise  unbridgable.  Right,  my  boy!" 
And  Robison  nodded. 

"Your  talks  with  Richards  were  mighty  mysteri 
ous,"  said  Kidder,  with  an  accusing  tone  of  voice 
he  could  not  quite  control. 

"So  is  the  internal  economy  of  a  bug  mysterious." 

"And  your  talk  about  the  Lion  eating  the  man 
and  the  International  Cribbage  Board — " 

"But  not  exactly  criminal,  eh?" 

"No;  but—" 

"Kidder,  my  rhetorical  eccentricities  are  of  no 
consequence.  Suppose  you  call  it  a  harmless  desire 
to  give  to  myself  the  importance  of  the  inexplicable, 

99 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

or  even  an  intent  to  confuse  impressions  by  making 
the  mind  of  the  broker  dwell  more  on  the  mysterious- 
ness  of  the  customer  than  on  the  possible  meaning 
of  that  customer's  trading.  Do  you  wish  me  to  tell 
you  that  I  have  a  system  for  beating  the  ticker  game  ? 
Because  I  sha'n't !  But  that  I  go  about  my  business 
scientifically  you  yourself  have  seen.  At  least  you 
are  witness  that  I  have  won.'* 

"Yes;   but—" 

"What's  the  second  question?" 

"There  isn't  a  second  if  you  won't  answer  the 
first,"  said  Kidder,  with  the  forced  amiability  of  the 
foiled. 

"I  have  answered  it.  What  you  really  wish  is  a 
detective  story.  Suppose  we  imagine.  The  only 
real  people  are  those  that  live  in  our  minds.  Now 
let  us  wonder  what  happened  to  Garrettson  and 
why  he  will  not  tell.  Here  is  an  incident  that  pre 
cipitated  a  slump  which  had  the  semblance  of  a 
panic — short-lived  though  it  was — that  caused  men 
tal  anguish  to  his  friends,  relatives,  and  associates; 
and  yet  that  great  genius  of  finance,  Wall  Street's 
demigod,  says  nothing." 

"He  says  he  was  in  his  library." 

"We  know  he  lies.  That  makes  it  more  serious. 
Why  does  he  lie?  What  compels  so  powerful  and 
courageous  a  man  as  the  great  Garrettson  to  lie?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  ought  to;  there  is  only  one  thing." 

"Do  you  mean  fear  of  a  petticoat  scandal?" 

"No;  because  Garrettson  does  not  fear  that. 
Being  highly  intelligent,  he  protects  himself  against 
all  possibility  of  scandal.  No.  It  is  something  else. 
It's  fear!" 

100 


THE    PANIC    OF    THF,    Li  ON 

''Of  the  alleged  kidnappers?" 

"No.  He  doesn't  fear  men.  But  he  might 
fear — "  He  paused. 

"What?"  eagerly  asked  the  newspaper  man. 

"Ridicule!" 

Kidder  aimed  what  he  fondly  hoped  was  a  piercing 
glance  at  Mr.  Robison.  He  discovered  nothing. 
Mr.  Robison  had  a  far-away  look  in  his  philosophical 
eyes. 

"It's  too  much  for  me,"  finally  confessed  Kidder, 
hoping  that  the  frankness  of  his  admission  might 
induce  Mr.  Robison  to  speak  on. 

Robison  smiled  forgivingly,  and  said: 

"You  have  what  I  may  call  the  usual  type  of  mind. 
You  look  at  usual  things  in  the  usual  way.  And 
yet  the  application  of  well-known  principles  to  well- 
known  people  seems  to  benumb  your  usual  mind 
most  unusually.  Now  what  do  you  gather  from  the 
Garrettson  episode?" 

"Nothing,  unless  it  is  that  you  made  a  lot  of 
money  by  what  seems  to  be  a  most  unusual  succession 
of  coincidences." 

"Your  voice,"  said  Robison,  with  a  sort  of  sedate 
amusement,  "exudes  suggestions  of  the  penitentiary. 
The  idea  of  law  and  order  has  become  an  instinct. 
The  lawful  is  usual.  The  unusual,  therefore,  is  un 
lawful.  It  puts  the  blessed  era  of  scientific  anarchy 
as  far  off  as  the  old  maids'  millennium — or  as  the 
abolition  of  stupidity  among  bankers  and— 

"And  newspaper  men — what?"  Kidder  prompted, 
pleasantly.  "Don't  mind  me.  I  enjoy  it." 

' '  Kidder,  you  are  a  nice  chap !  That's  why  I  asked 
your  Paris  man  for  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the 
financial  editor  of  his  newspaper.  It  gave  me  what 

101 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

I  as  a  stranger  needed  in  Wall  Street.  It  was  easy 
to  get.  It  is  an  American  failing  to  give  such  letters 
promiscuously,  because  we  are  an  irresponsible 
people.  I  have,  I  suppose,  voiced  a  suspicion  of 
yours  about  me?" 

"I  did  not  have  it.     I  have  it  now,  however." 

4 'If  we  talk  about  poor  me  any  longer  you'll  be 
asking  for  my  aliases  and  my  Bertillon  measure 
ments.  Now  let's  get  to  Garrettson.  We  know  he 
left  his  house  in  his  carriage  at  his  usual  hour  and  that 
he  did  not  arrive  at  his  office.  We  have  the  evidence 
of  his  coachman — a  man  above  suspicion — of  the 
newspapers,  and  of  the  cigar-ashes.  We  know,  for 
you  heard  Jenkins  call  up  the  house,  that  Mr.  Gar 
rettson  was  not  at  home.  We  know  that  his  dis 
appearance  must  have  been  connected  with  alarm 
ing  circumstances  or  his  partners  would  not  have 
been  so  badly  upset  as  to  allow  that  reputation- 
shattering  slump  in  the  Garrettson  shares — led,  I 
am  thankful  to  say,  by  Consolidated  Steel.  We 
know  that  Jenkins  rushed  up-town  to  the  Cressline 
Hotel  and  found  Dr.  Pierson,  but  no  Garrettson 
there,  as  had  been  tipped  off,  thereby  increasing  the 
mystery  or  suggesting  that  a  bear  clique  was  at  work 
and  was  taking  advantage  of  the  obvious  possibilities 
of  the  situation.  Merely  out  of  curiosity  I  found 
out  that  the  hotel  people  had  rented  Suite  D  to  a 
man  calling  himself  W.  H.  Garrettson,  who  was  ac 
companied  by  a  veiled  woman.  It  wasn't  Garrettson, 
though." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"It  was  clearly  a  ruse- — having  a  woman.  Don't 
you  see  it?  The  gossip  that  would — " 

"Very  ingenious;  but— 
102 


THE    PANIC   OF    THE    LION 

"At  all  events,  Garrettson  got  back.  We  suspect 
he  scolded  his  partners,  and  we  know  he  gave  out  a 
statement  to  the  reporters  that  was,  to  say  the  least, 
disingenuous.  We  know  that,  had  it  been  any  one 
but  Garrettson,  Wall  Street  would  have  seen  stock- 
market  strategy  in  his  highly  inconvenient  disap 
pearance." 

"Yes,  yes;  but—" 

"Friend  Kidder,  let  us  evolve  an  explanation  that 
explains.  Let  us  form  a  syndicate  of  intelligent 
men !"  He  made  a  motion  with  his  hand  as  if  waving 
away  the  necessity  of  further  elucidation. 

"Friend  Robison,"  said  Kidder,  jocularly  mimick 
ing  the  older  man's  manner,  "you  are  one  of  those 
unusual  men  whose  speeches  are  better  than  his 
silences.  Continuez,  s'il  vous  plait" 

"Intelligent  men,  deprecating  alike  violence 
and  the  immoderate  accumulation  of  wealth  by 
others.  To  reduce  such  wealth  would  be  their 
object." 

"A  band  of  robbers?" 

"No;   an  aggregation  of  philosophers." 

"None  the  less  crooks." 

"No;  since  they  would  take  from  crooks,  annex 
ing  only  that  class  of  wealth  which  is  called  tainted ! 
They  would  take  plunder  from  the  plunderers,  them 
selves  pardonable  plunderers.  That  would  give  to 
the  syndicate  a  confidence  in  itself  and  a  faith  in 
its  righteousness  that  would  make  success  easy. 
How  would  they  go  about  making  Wall  Street  con 
tribute  to  the  fund?  Now  they  must  have  seen 
that  Garrettson's  life  was  a  bull  factor,  and  his 
death  a  bear  card.  But  they  had  old-fashioned, 
unphilosophical  scruples  against  murder.  More- 

103 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

over,  the  sensational  disappearance  of  Garrettson 
would  serve  even  better  than  his  death.  Problem: 
How  to  kidnap  Garrettson?  Or,  better  still:  How 
to  make  Garrettson  kidnap  himself?  Simplicity 
itself!" 

"It  I  am  Dr. Watson  to  your  Sherlock  Holmes,  con 
sider  me  gazing  on  you  with  admiration.  And  so — " 

"The  time  would  be  when  the  Street  was  full  of 
people  long  of  Con.  Steel  and  the  newspapers  full  of 
articles  showing  the  greatness  of  W.  H.  Garrettson. 
If  I,  who  merely  desired  to  trade  in  a  few  thousand 
shares,  studied  Garrettson's  habits,  think  of  the 
syndicate  playing  for  millions!  They  learn  about 
his  daily  carriage  trip  to  his  office.  The  rest  is 
obvious,  even  to  you — isn't  it?"  Mr.  Robison  gazed 
benignantly  at  his  guest. 

"No;  it  isn't  obvious  to  me — or  to  any  one  else," 
retorted  Kidder,  sharply. 

"You  still  think  I  am  Delphic  or  a  crook?  My 
dear  Kidder,  how  can  you  ask  me  to  insult  your  in 
telligence  by  filling  in  the  obvious  gaps  in  an  ob 
vious  way?" 

"Insult  ahead." 

"Very  well.  Mr.  Garrettson  is  sane  in  every 
thing  except  in  the  matter  of  collecting  MSS.  At 
five  minutes  to  nine  a  man  goes  to  his  house — an 
impressive  stranger,  well-dressed,  cold-eyed,  with  the 
aristocratic  attitude  toward  servants  that  sees  in 
them  merely  pieces  of  furniture.  He  tells  the  foot 
man  in  a  dehumanized  voice  that  he  must  see 
Mr.  Garrettson.  The  footman  tells  the  butler. 
The  butler  comes  out.  The  stranger  says  to  the 
butler:  'I  am  leaving  for  Europe  this  morning. 
Tell  Mr.  Garrettson  he  will  see  me  at  once  or  not  at 

104 


THE    PANIC   OF    THE    LION 

all.  Give  him  this  paper  and  show  him  this  sheet. 
Make  haste!'  The  dazed  butler  gives  Mr.  Garrett- 
son  the  paper,  which  is  apparently  the  first  page  of 
the  Knickerbocker  History  of  New  York.  The 
memorandum  informs  Mr.  Garrettson:  'I  have,  in 
their  entirety,  the  MSS.  of  this  history,  Cooper's 
4 'Spy,"  Poe's  "Goldbug,"  three  love-letters  of  George 
Washington  to  Mrs.  Glendenning,  and  no  less  than 
sixteen  signed  letters  of  Thomas  Lynch,  the  one 
signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  whose 
autograph  is  really  rare.'  Of  course  Mr.  Garrettson 
would  see  the  stranger! 

"The  sheet  supposed  to  be  the  first  page  of  Irving's 
Knickerbocker  History  is  a  forgery,  so  well  done  as 
to  writing,  paper,  and  ink  as  to  make  Garrettson's 
mouth  water  for  the  rest.  He  has  the  stranger  taken 
into  the  library  and  shows  him  various  rare  MSS., 
the  history  of  which  the  stranger  knows,  thereby 
growing  in  Garrettson's  estimation,  particularly 
since  Garrettson  does  not  know  how  carefully  the 
stranger  has  prepared  himself  for  this  same  self- 
chosen  test.  But  the  man  is  a  lunatic,  for  he  wishes 
Garrettson  to  give  him  fifty  thousand  dollars  and 
five  fifteenth-century  enamels  for  the  MSS.,  sight 
unseen.  They  argue  and  haggle  and  fight.  Time 
thus  passes.  While  Garrettson  and  the  lunatic  are 
quarreling,  the  Garrettson  coupe  and  the  coachman 
are  waiting  outside  as  usual. 

"As  nine  o'clock  strikes,  which  the  coachman 
hears  as  usual  and  is  the  usual  signal  for  Garrettson's 
appearance,  the  coachman  sees  a  man  running  from 
round  the  corner,  pursued  by  a  well-dressed  woman 
with  a  horsewhip;  also  six  urchins  yelling,  'Give  it 
to  him,  Liz!'  This  attracts  the  coachman's  atten- 
8  105 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

tion.  The  man  stops  just  across  the  street  from  the 
Garrettson  house  and  the  woman  lashes  him.  Of 
course  the  coachman  has  turned  his  head  away 
from  his  master's  house  on  the  left  to  the  horse 
whipping  on  the  right.  Suddenly  he  hears  the  door 
of  the  coupe  slam — a  rebuking  sort  of  slam!  He 
turns  round,  gathers  up  the  reins  and  prepares  to 
start.  He  doesn't  have  to  be  told  where  to  go. 
It's  always  the  office.  While  he  was  looking  at  the 
horsewhipping  Mr.  Garrettson  has  come  out  of  the 
house  and  entered  the  waiting  carriage,  as  he  has 
done  every  day  for  thirty  years. 

1  'Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  the  coachman  sees 
the  footman  returning  to  the  house — a  bareheaded 
footman  in  the  dark-green  Garrettson  livery,  a 
bundle  of  newspapers  in  his  hands.  The  footman 
stops  short  and  turns  round.  He  is  smooth-shaved, 
as  all  footmen  are.  The  coachman  hears  him  say, 
'Beg  pardon — here  they  are,  sir!'  and  sees  the  foot 
man  hand  papers  to  Mr.  Garrettson  inside;  for 
who  should  be  inside  but  Mr.  W.  H.  Garrettson? 
The  footman  returns  to  the  house  and  the  coachman 
drives  away,  sure  that  his  master  is  within.  His 
customary  route  has  been  studied  and  it  is  easy  to 
cause  delays,  so  as  to  make  the  carriage  arrive  at 
the  office  fifteen  minutes  late.  No  Garrettson !  Why  ? 
Because  he  was  in  the  library !  The  footman  was  an 
accomplice.  The  syndicate  has  in  readiness  an  exact 
replica  of  the  Garrettson  carriage,  of  the  horse,  and 
even  of  the  coachman;  and  when  Garrettson  and 
his  cranky  visitor  do  come  out,  Garrettson  sees  his 
carriage  waiting  for  him,  gets  in,  and  is  driven 
away  —  but  not  to  his  office!  And  there  you 


are." 


106 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

''Do  you  really  think  that  is  what  happened?'* 

"It  is  what  a  gang  of  intelligent  men  would  do.'* 

"It  is  very  fine — only  it  cannot  happen." 

"Why  not?" 

"The  coachman  would  never  swallow  such  a  fool 
trick  as  that." 

"If  you  knew  the  history  of  our  old  New  York 
families  you  would  recall  the  episode  of  Mrs.  Robert 
Nye,  whose  old  coachman,  English  and  stiff-necked, 
one  day  drove  the  empty  victoria  round  Central 
Park,  thinking  he  carried  his  mistress,  because  the 
lap-robe  had  been  placed  in  the  carriage  by  the 
footman  before  the  old  lady  had  gotten  in — and 
usually  the  old  lady  got  in  first  and  the  lap-robe 
followed." 

"But  he  said  he  saw  Garrettson  get  in,"  objected 
Kidder;  "and  the  cigar -ashes  were  there  on  the 
floor!" 

"The  ashes  were  thrown  in  by  the  footman  for 
the  very  purpose  of  making  Argus-eyed  reporters 
make  a  point  of  it.  That  and  the  crumpled  news 
papers  clinched  it,  so  that  the  coachman  thought  he 
remembered  seeing  Garrettson  get  in.  It  is  what 
psychologists  call  an  illusion  of  memory." 

"Oh,  well—" 

"Oh,  well,  it  merely  means  that  progressive  people 
keep  posted.  Here,  let  me  read  you  what  Henry 
Rutgers  Marshall,  an  American  psychologist,  better 
known  to  the  learned  bodies  of  Europe  than  to  be 
nighted  compatriots  like  you,  has  to  say  about  this. 
I  copied  it: 

"Few  of  our  memories  are  in  any  measure  fully  accurate  as 
records;  and  under  certain  conditions,  which  arise  more  fre 
quently  than  most  of  us  realize,  the  characteristics  of  the  mem- 

107 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

ory-experience  may  appear  in  connection  with  images,  or  series 
of  images,  which  are  not  revivals  of  any  actual  past  events. 
In  such  cases  the  man  who  has  such  a  memory-experience,  auto 
matically  following  his  usual  mode  of  thought,  accepts  it  as  the 
revival  record  of  an  actual  occurrence  in  his  past  life.  When 
we  are  convinced  that  this  is  not  the  case  we  say  that  he  has 
suffered  from  an  'illusion  of  memory.' 

"  The  term  '  illusion  of  memory '  thus  appears  to  be  some 
thing  of  a  misnomer.  What  we  are  really  dealing  with  is  a  real 
memory-experience,  but  one  by  which  we  are  led  to  make  a 
false  judgment — and  this  because  the  judgment,  which  in  this 
special  case  is  false,  is  almost  invariably  fully  justified. 

"A  man  of  unquestioned  probity  is  thus  often  led  to  make 
statements  in  regard  to  his  experience  in  the  past  that  have  not 
the  least  foundation  in  fact." 

"But,  when  Garrettson  came  out  of  his  house 
do  you  mean  to  say  he  wouldn't  notice  a  different 
coachman?"  Kidder  looked  incredulous  in  advance 
of  the  answer. 

"He  wouldn't  be  looking  for  a  different  coachman 
and,  therefore,  he  wouldn't  find  one.  The  imitation 
was  close  enough  to  show  nothing  unusual,  nothing 
different.  A  lifelong  habit  never  develops  intro 
spective  misgivings.  No,  my  boy ;  Garrettson  never 
noticed.  Of  course  the  coachman  drove  to  some 
place  or  other  and  left  the  great  financier  a  prisoner 
in  the  cab." 

"How?" 

"By  making  the  door  of  the  coupe  impossible  to 
open  from  the  inside,  so  that  Garrettson  was  com 
pelled  finally  to  climb  out  of  the  window,  a  matter  of 
some  difficulty  to  a  man  of  his  years  and  weight. 
The  rest  you  know." 

"I  don't." 

"I  don't,  either,  if  you  use  that  tone  of  voice. 
But  I  imagine  that,  since  there  was  nothing  illegal 

108 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

or  violent  thus  far,  the  syndicate  continued  to  be 
intelligent.  For  instance,  they  might  have  made  it 
impossible  for  Garrettson  to  escape  from  the  carriage- 
room  of  the  private  stable  whither  he  was  taken, 
carriage  and  all,  except  by  going  through  a  lot  of 
cobwebs  and  coal-dust  and  stable  litter.  As  he 
emerged  from  the  coal-chute  a  photographer  could 
take  pictures  of  him — no  hero  of  a  thrilling  escape 
from  desperate  criminals,  but  just  a  plain  chump, 
full  of  dirt  and  soot  and  mud  and  manure,  hatless, 
grimy,  and  unscathed!  A  quickly  developed  photo 
graphic  plate,  a  print,  and  a  line  or  two  would,  of 
course,  make  him  keep  the  entire  affair  mum  on  the 
eve  of  the  most  gigantic  of  his  promotions — the 
Intercontinental  Railway  Consolidation.  Indeed, 
Garrettson  can  use  the  break  in  prices  and  the  re 
covery  of  the  market  to  increase  his  prestige  by 
pointing  out  how  important  not  only  his  life  is,  but, 
indeed,  his  physical  presence." 

"But  the  syndicate — " 

"It  might  have  been  short  a  hundred  thousand 
shares  of  the  Garrettson  stocks,  on  which  it  made  an 
average  profit  of  eight  or  ten  points.  Well,  my 
friend  Kidder,  we'll  just  about  have  time  to  see  the 
last  act  of  Boheme.  Come  on!" 

Amos  Kidder,  torn  by  conflicting  emotions,  grate 
ful  for  an  epoch-making  dinner,  interested  as  never 
before  by  his  host's  conversation,  talked  a  great  deal 
about  it,  but  it  was  only  months  afterward  that  he 
finally  knew. 

One  day  he  received  three  photographs.  One 
showed  the  great  Garrettson  in  the  act  of  emerging 
from  a  coal-hole.  His  clothes  were  a  sight  and  his 
face  was  much  more!  Another  showed  Garrettson 

109 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

dusting  himself  of  cobwebs  and  wisps  of  stable 
litter.  The  photographs  explained  why  Garrettson 
had  not  told  the  reporters  where  he  had  spent  that 
fateful  forenoon — and  why  he  had  not  tried  to  learn 
to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  his  misadventure. 
Accompanying  the  photographs  was  this  letter: 

SIR, — We  send  you  herewith  photographs  of  the  great  Mogul 
of  Wall  Street  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  house  whither  he  was 
taken  on  a  certain  morning.  The  house  number  was  removed 
so  he  could  not  identify  the  house.  We  are  sure  you  can  recon 
struct  the  story  of  the  famous  forenoon  by  what  you  know  and 
by  what  you  can  guess.  This  syndicate  of  ours  was  formed 
to  reduce  the  tainted  wealth  of  our  compatriots,  and  is  still 
operating  successfully.  If  we  ever  send  you  a  telegram  in  code, 
read  it  by  taking  the  first  two  letters  of  each  word  —  except 
only  the  first  word,  which  is  always  the  abbreviation  of  a 
name.  We  take  the  trouble  to  tell  you  this  because  your 
paper  was  of  great  use  to  us,  as  we  intended  it  should  be,  and 
because  we  expect  to  use  you  again  very  shortly.  You  might 
compare  notes  with  Mr.  Boon,  the  jeweler.  Once  more  thank 
ing  you  for  your  benevolence,  we  remain, 

Respectfully, 
THE  PLUNDER  RECOVERY  SYNDICATE. 

Kidder  showed  this  letter  to  Richards.  "Let  us 
see,"  said  Richards,  "whether  we  can  now  read  the 
cablegram  that  Robison  left  with  the  office-boys, 
with  a  reward  for  the  successful  translator." 

He  rang  the  bell,  sent  for  the  message,  and  applied 
the  test;  it  worked! 

"Mpgulgar  must  stand  for  Garrettson,  the  great 
Mogul  of  Wall  Street,"  said  Richards.  He  was  one 
of  those  men  who  always  are  glad  to  discover  the 
obvious. 

"  Yes.  '  Will  vanish  tw(o)  hours  Wed.'  Well, 
he  certainly  did.  It  proves  it  really  was  planned. 

no 


THE    PANIC   OF   THE    LION 

But  I  am  not  sure  this  was  a  bona-fide  cablegram. 
Possibly  Robison  himself  faked  it." 

"Why  don't  you  find  out?"  suggested  the  broker. 

"I  will,"  said  Kidder,  and  he  did.  He  learned 
that  neither  the  telegraph  nor  the  cable  companies 
had  any  record  of  the  deluge  of  messages  received  by 
Robison  in  the  brokers'  office. 

"They  were  fakes,  probably  to  carry  out  the  ap 
pearance  of  reality,"  said  Richards,  with  a  Sherlock 
Holmes  nod  of  explanation. 

"Yes,  yes,"  acquiesced  Kidder,  impatiently;  "but 
what  astonishes  me  is  the  syndicate's  moderation.  I 
wonder  what  they'll  do  next." 

"I  wonder,"  echoed  the  broker,  who  really  was 
wondering  whether  the  market  was  going  up  or 
down. 

Kidder,  however,  went  up-town  and  saw  Jesse  L. 
Boon.  He  told  Boon  all  he  knew  and  much  that 
he  suspected,  and  Boon  in  return  admitted  that 
Welch,  Boon  &  Shaw  "had  lost  a  few  pieces"- — but 
not  for  publication.  Such  things  are  bound  to  hap 
pen,  and  are  charged  to  profit  and  loss.  Kidder 
knew  better,  but  all  that  he  could  do  was  to  pray 
that  he  might  again  cross  the  trail  of  the  plunder- 
recoverer  who  had  called  himself  Robison. 


Ill 

AS  PROOFS  OF  HOLY  WRIT 


THE  bell  of  the  telephone  on  the  desk  of  the  alert 
city  editor  of  the  New  York  Planet  rang  twice. 
The  alert  city  editor  did  not  instantly  answer  it. 
He  was  reading  a  love-letter  not  meant  for  his  eyes. 
It  had  been  sent  in  with  his  mail  by  mistake.  The 
bell  rang  again. 

"Yes?"  he  said,  angrily.  "Who?  Oh,  hello, 
Bill!"  There  was  a  pause.  Then:  "Shall  we? 
Why,  friend,  he's  already  started.  Thanks  awfully! 
Sure  thing!" 

He  swung  round  and  cast  a  roaming  glance  about 
the  big  room.  It  was  Sunday,  the  sacred  day  when 
nothing  happened. 

"Parkhurst!"  he  called. 

Parkhurst,  one  of  the  Planet's  star  men,  sauntered 
over  to  the  desk.  He  had  planned  to  do  other 
things  with  his  time  this  nice  Sunday  afternoon. 
Monday-morning  stories  are  not  apt  to  be  exciting. 
Therefore  he  limped  pathetically  in  anticipation  of 
the  excuse  he  proposed  to  make  to  get  off.  He  was 
Williams 's  chum. 

"Jimmy,"  said  the  city  editor,  with  his  habitual 

112 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

air  of  giving  assignments  as  though  they  were  decora 
tions  awarded  for  distinguished  services,  ' '  I  just  had 
Bill  Stewart,  of  the  Hotel  Brabant,  on  the  telephone. 
He  says  there  is  a  man  there  who  has  seven  million 
dollars  in  gold-dust  in  the  engine-room  of  the  hotel. 
Klondike  mine-owner.  Does  not  believe  in  banks, 
I  guess.  Takes  mighty  big  stocking  to  hold  the 
cash—" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  write  the  story?"  interrupted 
Parkhurst,  coldly.  It  was  his  way  of  showing  his 
city  editor  his  place. 

"Coal-Oil  Johnny  up  to  date!  Don't  fall  for  any 
press  agent — " 

Parkhurst  forgot  the  excuse  he  was  going  to  make. 
His  limp  vanished.  The  story  promised  well.  He 
hastened  to  the  Brabant  and  saw  the  room  clerk, 
Stewart,  who  had  tipped  off  the  city  editor. 

"Yes,  he  is  in,"  said  Stewart.  "But  if  you  think 
it  is  another  case  of  Coal-Oil  Johnny  you've  got 
another  guess  coming.  Not  that  he  is  a  tightwad; 
he  is  liberal  enough  with  his  nuggets,  the  bell-hops 
say.  But  he  is  no  fool.  And  yet — think  of  it!— 
he  takes  'into  Seattle  with  him  from  Nome  eight  or 
ten  millions  of  gold-dust!  There  he  hires  a  special 
train  to  bring  him  and  his  gold-dust  to  New  York. 
He  arrives  at  the  Grand  Central  in  the  early  morning. 
They  hustle  round  and  find  seven  trucks  to  carry 
the  boxes  of  gold-dust  for  him.  He  follows  in  a 
taxicab.  He  comes  straight  to  this  hotel — " 

Stewart  here  swelled  up  his  chest.  It  made  the 
reporter  say,  amiably: 

"It  was  considered  a  good  hotel  once;  but  news 
travels  slowly  in  the  frozen  North." 

"He  comes  up  here,  registers,  and  then  expects 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

me  to  let  him  take  the  whole  fifteen  tons  of  gold  up 
to  his  room.  What  do  you  know  about  that? 
Well,  then  he  wanted  to  hire  a  whole  floor  so  as  to 
distribute  the  weight.  But  you  know  it  is  a  highly 
concentrated  weight.  No  floor  would  stand  it. 
Gold  is  the  heaviest  thing  there  is." 

"It  is,"  agreed  Parkhurst,  hastily.  "It  is,  dear 
friend.  That's  why  I  never  carry  more  than  a 
couple  of  tooth-fillings  with  me,  and — " 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  cut  in  Stewart,  full  of  his  story. 
"So,  being  Sunday  and  no  banks  open,  we  arranged 
for  him  to  keep  the  gold-dust  down-stairs  in  the  en 
gine-room.  And  it  is  there  now,  a  hundred  and 
fifty  boxes,  worth,  he  says,  about  eight  million — 

"Lead  me  to  it  before  you  hand  in  your  bill," 
entreated  the  reporter. 

"There  are  eight  Old  Sleuths,  with  sixteen  au 
tomatic  pistols,  on  the  job  of  keeping  hungry  news 
paper  men  from  the  nice  little  paper-weights,  Jimmy," 
said  Stewart.  "I  am  so  kind  to  Mr.  Jerningham 
myself  that  I  think  he  will  remember  me  in  one  of 
those  wills  you  fellows  are  always  writing  about — 
don't  you  know?  How  a  fabulous  fortune  is  left 
to  the  polite  hotel  clerk  who  was  so  nice  to  the 
stranger  in  the  spring  of  eighteen  seventy-four?" 

"What's  the  full  name?"  asked  the  reporter. 

"There  it  is!"  and  Stewart  pointed  to  the  auto 
graph  in  the  hotel  register. 

"Alfred  Jerningham.  Nome  and  New  York. 
Suite  G." 

There  followed  the  names  of  the  eight  bullion 
guards  and  his  two  personal  servants. 

"Looks  like  a  school -boy's  writing." 

"He  is  about  forty,"  said  the  clerk. 
114 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

"Then  it  means  he  probably  stopped  writing  for 
publication  when  he  was  about  fourteen.  That  is 
the  immature  chirography  of  a  man  who  is  more  at 
home  with  a  pick  than  with  a  pen.  And,  further 
more — " 

"Here  he  comes,"  interjected  Stewart.  "I'll  in 
troduce  you." 

J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst,  the  reporter,  was  startled 
by  the  change  in  Stewart's  face.  It  had  taken  on 
the  ingratiating  soul-sweetness  of  one  who  enjoys 
your  story  with  all  his  faculties — the  complete  sur 
render  of  self,  soul,  and  hopes  of  heaven.  The  clerk 
exuded  gratitude  from  every  pore. 

"Gosh!"  exclaimed  J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst  in 
amazement,  and  turned  quickly  to  see  who  it  was 
that  had  made  Stewart's  greed-stricken  face  turn 
itself  into  a  moving-picture  film  of  all  the  delights. 

A  man  was  approaching — a  man  of  about  the  re 
porter's  height,  square-shouldered,  smooth-shaved, 
strong-chinned,  with  an  outdoor  complexion,  and 
the  clear,  clean,  steady  eyes  of  a  man  without  a 
liver.  There  was  a  metallic  glint  to  the  gray-blue 
of  the  iris  that  made  the  eyes  a  trifle  hard.  The  lips 
were  not  only  compressed,  but  you  guessed  that  the 
compression  was  habitual.  Even  a  private  detective 
could  have  told  that  this  man  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  do  one  thing,  and  therefore  he  would  do  it.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  it. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jerningham!"  The  name  issued  like  a 
stream  of  saccharin  out  of  the  eddying  smiles  on 
Stewart's  face. 

"The  expectation  of  twenty  millions  of  gold,  at 
least,  on  that  face!"  thought  Parkhurst,  more  im 
pressed  by  the  smile  than  by  the  cause  thereof. 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Here  is  that  nugget  I  promised  you."  And 
Mr.  Jerningham  dropped  four-and-three-quarter 
pounds  troy  of  gold  into  the  clerk's  coy  hand. 
"It  is  the  largest  I  ever  found  in  six  years'  mining 
on  the  Klondike." 

The  reporter  later  told  the  city  editor — he  did 
not  print  this — that  Stewart,  as  he  got  the  nugget, 
showed  plainly  on  his  face  his  disappointment  that 
Jerningham  had  not  come  from  the  South-African 
diamond-fields.  A  carbon  crystal  weighing  four 
pounds  and  three-quarters — that  would  have  been 
worth  a  real  smile!  But  the  clerk  said,  gratefully: 

' '  It's  very  good  of  you.  Thank  you  ever  so  much ! 
I'd  like  to  introduce  to  you  my  friend,  Mr.  Park- 
hurst." 

"Glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir.  Parker, 
did  you  say?" 

The  Klondiker  spoke  coldly.  It  made  the  reporter 
say,  subtly  antagonistic: 

"Parkhurst!" 

"Any  relation  to — " 

"Haven't  a  relation  in  the  world." 

"Shake  again,  friend,"  said  Jerningham,  warmly. 
"I  am  in  the  same  boat  myself!" 

They  shook  hands  again. 

"Do  you  want  to  be  very  nice?"  asked  Jerningham, 
almost  eagerly,  of  the  reporter. 

"It  is  my  invariable  custom  to  be  that,"  Park- 
hurst  assured  him,  gravely. 

"Dine  with  me  to-night."  Jerningham  looked 
expectant. 

"I  have  an  engagement  with  my  friend  the 
bishop,"  said  the  reporter,  who  hated  clergymen  for 
obvious  reasons.  "But — let  me  see!"  Parkhurst 

116 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

closed  his  eyes  the  better  to  see  how  he  could  break 
his  engagement.  "I'll  send  regrets  to  the  bishop 
and  dine  with  you  with  pleasure." 

"Mr.  Parkhurst  is  on  the  Planet,"  put  in  Stewart. 
It  was  the  way  he  said  it ! 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Jerningham,  vaguely. 

"In  fact,  Mr.  Jerningham,"  said  Parkhurst,  "I 
was  sent  to  interview  you." 

"Huh?"  ejaculated  the  Klondiker,  blankly.  It 
was  plain  he  was  virgin  soil. 

"All  to  myself!"  thought  J.  Willoughby,  with  a 
mental  smack  of  the  lips.  Then  he  began,  in  that 
congratulatory  tone  of  voice  with  which  practised 
interviewers  corkscrew  admissions  out  of  their  vic 
tims:  "We  heard  about  your  trip  from  Seattle,  and 
about  your — er — baggage.  Would  you  mind  telling 
me  a  little  more  about  it?  We  could" — with  a 
honeyed  grin  at  Stewart — "sit  down  in  a  nice  little 
corner  of  the  cafe  and  have  a  nice  little  chat." 

"I  don't  mind — if  you  don't,"  said  Jerningham, 
with  one  of  those  diffidently  eager  smiles  of  people 
who  are  doing  you  a  favor  and  do  not  know  it. 

The  reporter  led  the  way  to  the  cafe,  selected  a 
small  table  in  the  farthest  corner,  beckoned  to  a 
waiter,  pointed  to  a  chair,  and  nodded  toward  the 
Alaskan  Monte  Cristo. 

"Thank  you!"  said  Jerningham,  with  real  grati 
tude,  and  sat  down.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch, 
saw  that  it  was  only  four  o'clock,  and  said  to  the 
waiter,  "A  cup  of  tea,  please." 

"Huh?"  It  was  all  J.  Willoughby  could  rise  to. 
A  miner  and  tea?  What  about  the  free  champagne 
for  the  hundreds?  A  tea-drinker  would  not  scatter 
walnut-sized  diamonds  along  the  Great  White  Way. 

117 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"I  got  used  to  it.  My  pal  was  English.  We  found 
it  preferable  to  whisky  in  the  Klondike."  Mr. 
Jerningham  made  no  effort  to  disguise  the  apologetic 
tone. 

"I'll  have  the  same,"  cleverly  said  J.  Willoughby. 
Then,  to  clinch  it,  "Of  course  you  know  that  in  the 
exclusive  clubs  to-day  men  drink  more  tea  than 
liquor!" 

"It's  the  proper  thing — eh?"  said  Jerningham,  with 
a  sort  of  head-waiter  deference  that  made  the  re 
porter  stare  in  surprise.  "I  am  glad  you  told  me 
that." 

"Oh  yes.  It  is  no  longer  good  form  to  get  load 
er — intoxicated.  It's  one  of  the  few  good  things 
we've  got  from  England — tea-drinking,"  the  reporter 
said.  "And,  Mr.  Jerningham,  to  get  back  to  our 
subject,  just  how  did  you  happen  to  go  to  the  Klon 
dike?" 

"It  began  in  New  York,"  said  Jerningham,  and 
drew  his  lips  together.  It  was  clearly  not  a  pleasant 
memory. 

"It  did?"  You  could  tell  that  J.  Willoughby  was 
grateful.  "Well,  well!  And—"  He  frowned  as 
though  a  date  had  escaped  him.  He  really  suggested 
time  to  the  miner,  for  Jerningham  volunteered: 

"When  I  was  twelve  years  old." 

"That's  about  twenty  years  ago,"  ventured  the 
reporter  in  the  affirmative  tone  of  voice  that  inev 
itably  elicits  contradiction  and  the  exact  figures  from 
the  victim. 

"Thirty- two  years  ago,  sir." 

"Well,  well!    And —    How  did  you  say  it  began?" 

The  reporter  put  his  hand  to  his  ear  to  show  that 
his  hardness  of  hearing  had  nrevented  him  from 

118 


AS    PROOFS   OF   HOLY   WRIT 

getting  Jerningham's  previous  answer  to  the  same 
question. 

''My  father!"  Mr.  Jerningham  nodded  twice,  to 
show  that  those  two  words  told  the  whole  story. 

"Ah,  yes!  And  then?"  The  reporter  looked  as  if 
instant  death  would  follow  the  non-receipt  of  infor 
mation;  and  Jerningham,  as  though  against  a  life 
long  determination  to  be  silent,  spoke — and  frowned 
as  he  spoke: 

"My  father!  He  was  a  coachman  in  the  employ 
of  old  David  Soulett,  who  was  the  son  of  Walter  and 
the  father  of  Richard  and  David  the  third,  and  of 
Madge,  who  married  the  Duke  of  Peterborough. 
Old  David  Soulett — the  second,  he  was — was  my 
father's  employer.  My  father  was  English.  He 
came  to  New  York  when  he  was  eighteen.  He  went 
straight  into  the  Souletts'  stable,  became  head  coach 
man,  and  lived  with  the  family  for  fifty  years.  They 
pensioned  him  off.  I  grew  up  with  the  boys — called 
one  another  by  our  first  names.  Do  you  get  that  ? — 
by  our  first  names!" 

Jerningham  compressed  his  lips  tightly  and 
nodded.  His  eyes  filled  with  reminiscence — sweet, 
yet  sad. 

"You  did,  eh?"  said  the  reporter. 

If  J.  Willoughby  had  been  addicted  to  slang  he 
would  have  used  the  same  wondering  tone  of  voice 
and  would  have  exclaimed,  "What  do  you  know 
about  that!" 

"And  that  is  why  I  went  to  the  Klondike!" 

There  are  times  when  a  man's  voice  and  attitude 
show  that  he  is  speaking  in  italics.  This  was  one 
of  the  times.  Having  said  all  there  was  to  be  said, 
he  turned  to  the  tea  with  a  gesture  of  such  determina- 

119 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

tion  that  Parkhurst  leaned  over,  half  expecting  to 
see  a  dozen  starving  grizzly-bears  jump  out  of  the 
cup.  Then  the  thought  came  to  the  watchful  re 
porter  that  the  grim-shut  lips  merely  expressed  that 
some  memory  was  bitter.  He  asked,  very  sympa 
thetically,  "Did  they  send  you  away?" 

''They  did  not  send  me  away.  They  did  nothing! 
They  were !  That's  all.  It  was  enough. ' ' 

"Yes,  of  course!"  The  reporter  agreed  with 
Jerningham  absolutely.  "But  I  don't  quite  see  the 
exact  reason,  as  you  might  say." 

"They  were!"  explained  Jerningham  as  one  might 
talk  to  a  child.  "They  were  Souletts,  rich  by  in 
heritance,  in  the  best  society.  They  had  everything 
I  did  not  have.  So  I  went  to  the  Klondike." 

"Yes?" 

"Is  it  not  clear?" 

"No!"  said  the  reporter,  grateful  for  the  chance 
to  use  the  plain  negative. 

"They  were  in  the  Four  Hundred.  They  were 
gentlemen.  They  were  good-looking,  pleasant-man 
nered,  kindly -hearted  fellow-Christians.  But  if  they 
had  not  been  the  sons  of  David  Soulett,  and  if 
David  had  not  been  the  son  of  Walter,  and  Walter 
the  son  of  the  first  David,  they  wouldn't  have  been 
in  the  Four  Hundred,  or  in  the  Four  Thousand  even. 
Policemen  at  the  corners  used  to  touch  their  hats  to 
them  as  they  drove  by  and  seemed  really  glad  to 
get  a  pleasant  smile  in  return.  You  felt  the  cops 
would  never  have  dreamt  of  taking  a  Soulett  to  the 
station-house — always  to  the  Soulett  mansion.  New- 
Yorkers  used  to  point  to  it — the  Soulett  mansion — 
with  an  air  of  pride,  as  though  they  owned  it! 
Clerks  in  shops  would  send  for  the  proprietor  if  one 

120 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

of  the  Souletts  walked  in,  and  later  they  would  brag 
how  they  said  to  David  Soulett,  they  said;  and  be 
said,  said  he— and  so  on.  And  why?  Why,  I  ask 
you?" 

"Why?"  repeated  the  reporter,  hypnotically. 

"Because  an  ignorant  old  cuss  couldn't  read  or 
write  and  had  to  go  to  digging  graves  in  Trinity 
churchyard  for  a  living.  It  was  old  David's  proud 
boast  that  he  put  away  one  thousand  six  hundred  and 
thirty-two  people,  including  the  very  best  there  were 
in  literature,  art,  science,  theology,  commerce,  and 
finance,  besides  nineteen  murderers,  thirty-eight  pet 
slaves,  and  one  dog  of  his  own.  A  very  snob  among 
grave-diggers,  laying  the  foundation  for  the  non- 
snobbishness  of  his  great-grandchildren!  Digging 
graves,  you  see,  turned  his  mind  to  soil.  The  only 
thing  that  didn't  burn  up  or  evaporate  or  shrink 
was  soil.  Genius  for  real  estate  they  call  his  madness 
to-day.  But  it  was  an  obsession.  He  bought  a 
farm  in  what  is  now  the  swell  shopping  district; 
and  another  where  the  Hotel  Regina  is;  and  another 
beginning  where  the  Vandeventer  houses  are.  The 
old  lunatic's  mad  purchases  are  now  worth  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  million  dollars;  and  he  himself  is  an 
ancestor,  with  fake  portraits  showing  an  intellectual- 
looking  country  squire.  Grave-digger- — that's  what! 
But  the  money  really  began  with  him  and  the  near- 
gentleman  with  Walter,  who  knew  the  best  families 
because  his  father  buried  them  one  after  another. 
By  the  time  the  real-estate  market  got  to  going  in 
earnest  David  was  born — of  course  a  gentleman! 
What  did  it?  Unearned  money!" 

"Yes.  But  what's  digging  graves  got  to  do  with 
your  going  to  the  Klondike?" 

9  121 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

1  'Everything.  It  gave  me  the  secret  of  it — the 
unearned  part.  Don't  you  see?" 

"No."  " 

"My  dear  sir,  I  loved  the  company  of  the  Soulett 
boys  and  I  enjoyed  the  society  of  their  equals.  So  I 
naturally  desired  to  become  their  equal.  To  become 
a  gentleman  I  had  to  become  rich.  But  the  money 
must  not  be  earned;  so  I  couldn't  make  it  in  trade — 
which,  moreover,  was  too  slow.  The  careers  of 
butcher,  plumber,  and  liquor-dealer,  that  might  have 
made  me  rich  quickly,  were  closed  to  me  by  the  social 
disqualifications  they  carry.  And  the  careers  of 
Jim  Sands  and  Bill  Train  in  Wall  Street  were  too 
malodorous;  besides  which,  you  can't  make  very 
much  money  on  the  Stock  Exchange  without  tread 
ing  on  influential  social  toes.  Hence  the  Klondike. 
Do  you  see  now?" 

"I'm  beginning  to." 

"Well?" 

' '  Do  you  mean, ' '  said  the  reporter,  to  get  it  straight, 
"that  you  went  to  the  Klondike  to  make  money  so 
as  to  climb — I  mean,  so  as  to  go  into  society?" 

"Exactly  so!  Yes,  sir!  And  I  tell  you,  Mr. 
Parker—" 

"Park-tors*/"  said  J.  Willoughby,  with  a  frown  of 
injured  vanity. 

"Mr.  Parkhurst,  a  man  has  to  have  some  strong 
motive  to  enable  him  to  conquer  success.  In  all  my 
wanderings  for  twenty-five  years,  prospecting  in 
Montana,  Wyoming,  Utah,  Colorado,  the  South 
west,  Nevada,  California,  Oregon,  and  Washington, 
and  finally  all  over  Alaska,  I  had  but  one  object  in 
mind,  one  purpose.  It  sustained  me.  It  gave  me 
courage  when  others  despaired ;  it  kept  me  marching 

122 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

onward  when  others  fell  by  the  wayside  and  died  or 
became  sheep-ranchers.  I  had  no  thought  for  amuse 
ment,  none  for  pleasure,  none  for  love.  I  simply 
kept  up  my  search.  It  was  the  search  for  happiness 
that  the  old  knights  used  to  go  out  on.  It  was  a 
search,  Mr.  Parker-hurst,  for  the  yellow  admission 
ticket  to  the  Four  Hundred!" 

"Have  you  found  it?"  J.  Willoughby  could  not 
help  it. 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  pursued  Jerningham,  ignoring 
the  question.  "I  used  to  read  the  society  columns 
of  the  New  York  papers  whenever  I  felt  myself 
growing  discouraged;  and  that  always  revived  me. 
Up  in  the  Klondike  I  had  saved  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  and  I  paid  one  thousand  dollars  in  gold-dust 
for  a  six-months-old  copy  of  a  society  paper  which 
had  an  account  of  Mrs.  Masters' s  ball.  To  me, 
*  among  those  present*  meant  more  than  a  list  of 
gilt-edge  bonds.  I've  got  it  yet." 

He  paused  to  take  from  his  pocket-book  a  tattered 
clipping  and  showed  it  to  the  newspaper  man  with  a 
mixture  of  pride  and  tenderness  and  solicitude  lest 
it  be  harmed,  as  a  father  shows  the  only  extant 
photograph  of  the  most  wonderful  baby  in  captivity. 

"I  thought  my  name  would  fit  in  very  nicely  be 
tween  the  Janeways  and  the  Jesups.  It  was  a  good 
investment,  that  one  thousand  dollars,  for  I  felt 
I  had  to  get  a  gait  on,  and  that  very  same  day 
I  went  on  that  prospecting  trip  to  the  Endicott 
Mountains  which  changed  my  luck  for  me.  Every 
thing  came  my  way  then — I  mean,  in  mining.  I  am 
getting  six  hundred  thousand  dollars  a  year  out  of 
my  claims;  and  that  is  because  I  believe  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars  a  month  enough  for  a  bachelor.  More 

123 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

would  be — er — sort  of  ostentatious.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  agreed  J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst, 
with  a  shudder. 

"When  I  marry  I'll  make  it  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  month." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Parkhurst — "because, 
really,  two  cannot  live  as  cheaply  as  one."  He 
thrilled  when  he  thought  how  he  would  play  up 
that  promised  income  in  his  story. 

"That's  what  I  say,"  Jerningham  said,  gratefully. 
"Of  course  there's  the  seven  millions  and  a  half  of 
gold-dust  I  have  brought  with  me.  It's  down 
stairs."  His  grim  mouth  became  more  determinedly 
grim  than  ever.  This  man  was  the  kind  that  gets 
what  he  wants,  with  or  without  money.  He  will 
not  climb,  thought  Parkhurst;  he  will  vault  into 
society.  He  asked  Jerningham : 

"Have  you  really  got  that  much  down-stairs? 
I  mean,"  he  hastily  corrected  himself,  "have  you  no 
fear  of  the  danger  of  going  about  with  that  much 
loose  change?" 

"No.  It's  guarded  by  men  who  are  getting  big 
pay  for  being  honest.  You  can  buy  honesty — if  you 
treat  it  as  a  luxury  and  pay  for  it  as  such.  Each 
box  weighs  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  for  con 
venience  in  handling.  Would  you  like  to  see  the 
stuff?"  He  could  not  hide  a  boyish  eagerness — not 
at  all  offensive — to  impress  his  new  friend.  J.  Will 
oughby  Parkhurst  forgave  him  in  advance,  and  to 
prove  it  said,  heartily: 

1 '  Very  much  indeed !" 

"Very  well.  Please  come  with  me."  And  he 
led  the  way  to  the  engine-room.  They  went  down 

124 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

two  flights.  At  the  door  of  the  engine-room  they  met 
the  engineer,  who  bowed  with  an  obsequiousness 
that  indicated  sincere  gratitude  and  renewed  hope — 
as  of  a  man  who  has  received  a  handsome  gratuity 
and  is  expecting  another. 

In  the  middle  of  the  concrete  floor  of  the  engine- 
room,  piled  up  in  an  amazingly  small  mound  of 
boxes,  was  the  gold. 

"Each  box  has  about  fifty  thousand  dollars  in 
dust,"  explained  Jerningham,  with  what  one  might 
have  called- a  matter-of-fact  pride.  "Would  you 
like  to  open  one?" 

"I  don't  want  to  put  you  to  any  trouble — not  for 
worlds;  but  I  do  want  to  see  the  inside  of  one  like 
anything." 

"No  trouble.  I  say,  Mr.  Wilkinson,"  to  the  hotel 
engineer,  who  had  followed  them,  a  deferential  smile 
fastened  to  his  face,  "could  you  get  me  a  hammer 
and  chisel  and  a  screw-driver?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Jerningham,"  said  the  engineer, 
with  obvious  pride  at  being  part  of  an  extraordinary 
adventure.  He  reappeared  presently  with  the  tools 
and  a  burly  assistant.  They  pried  off  the  steel 
hoop  and  cracked  off  the  sealing-wax  from  over  the 
heads  of  the  screws  that  held  the  lid  in  place.  They 
then  unscrewed  the  cover — and  there  before  their 
wide-gaping  eyes  was  a  boxful  of  yellow  Yukon  gold. 

Jerningham  smilingly  looked  at  J.  Willoughby 
Parkhurst  and  waved  his  hand  toward  the  treasure — 
a  gesture  that  said  Help  yourself! — only  it  said  it 
humorously.  And  so  the  reporter  smiled  indul 
gently  and  plunged  his  hand  in  it. 

"How  heavy!"  he  exclaimed,  involuntarily.  He 
had  meant  to  be  witty,  as  penniless  people  always 

125 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

are  in  the  presence  of  great  wealth  to  show  that 
they  are  not  impressed. 

"It  will  be  light  enough  to  blow  away  here,"  said 
Jerningham  so  seriously  that  nobody  smiled — indeed, 
everybody  hoped  for  a  blast  in  the  direction  of  his 
own  pocket.  But  Jerningham  merely  said :  "Thank 
you.  Will  you  screw  it  on  again?"  And  the  en 
gineer  did.  Jerningham  did  not  stay  to  see  the  re- 
screwing  finished.  He  took  Parkhurst's  arm  and 
walked  out.  The  reporter  told  him: 

"I  can't  help  thinking  it  was  imprudent.  The 
detectives  now  know  they  can  open  the  boxes  and — : 

"It  isn't  likely  that  all  eight  will  be  dishonest  at 
the  same  minute.  That's  why  I  got  eight  instead  of 
four.  But,  even  if  they  all  wanted  to,  how  much 
could  they  get  away  with?  With  the  contents  of 
one  of  the  boxes,  fifty  thousand  dollars?  Well,  that 
isn't  much.  I  can't  afford  to  let  that  gold  be  a 
bother  to  me.  I  brought  it  along  so  that  it  could 
be  my  servant — not  for  me  to  be  its  slave." 

"I've  heard  others  make  that  selfsame  remark," 
said  J.  Willoughby,  cheerfully,  "but  they  never 
struck  off  the  aureate  shackles!" 

"My  friend,  it's  not  in  striking  off  shackles;  that 
is  always  difficult.  The  secret  is  in  not  letting  them 
become  shackles!"  said  Jerningham,  grimly.  "A 
man  does  not  confidently  expect  during  twenty-five 
years  to  strike  it  rich  some  day  without  very  care 
fully  thinking  of  what  he  is  going  to  do  with  the  gold 
after  he  gets  it." 

II 

The  story,  as  James  Willoughby  Parkhurst  wrote 
it,  and  even  as  the  Planet  printed  it,  was  a  master- 

126 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

piece.  It  was  far  more  interesting  than  a  fake. 
The  truth  often  may  be  stranger  than  fiction,  but 
it  is  seldom  so  exciting.  With  the  generous  desire 
to  repay  Jerningham's  hospitality  with  kindness,  to 
say  nothing  of  an  eye  for  the  picturesque,  the  reporter 
made  his  victim  an  Admirable  Crichton.  Park- 
hurst's  Jerningham  was  very  distinguished-looking, 
which  every  woman  knows  is  better  for  a  man  than 
being  handsome.  He  not  only  was  "  probably  the 
richest  man  in  the  world,"  but  a  fine  linguist— indeed, 
a  philologist.  You  saw  Jerningham  digging  in  his 
gravel -bank  by  day — spadeful  after  spadeful  of  clear 
gold-dust — and  at  nights  reading  Aristophanes  in  the 
original  by  the  flickering  and  malodorous  light  of 
seal-fat  lamps. 

On  the  same  day  that  Jerningham  learned  that  his 
own  wealth  was  practically  inexhaustible,  and  de 
cided  to  limit  his  income  in  order  that  gold  might 
not  be  demonetized,  he — the  philologist  in  him — 
discovered  also  amazing  analogies  between  certain 
Eskimo  and  Aleutian  words  and  their  equivalents  in 
Tibetan.  This  and  a  monograph  on  "Totemism  in 
the  Light  of  Its  Undoubted  Babylonian  Origin,"  he 
would  read  in  London  before  the  Royal  Society. 
Of  Jerningham's  ancestry  the  article  said  that  the 
erudite  Croesus  was  "of  the  Long  Island  Jerning- 
hams." 

At  three  separate  and  distinct  places  in  the  article, 
each  time  differently  worded,  but  the  intention  and 
purpose  thereof  being  the  same,  the  writer  said  that 
for  generosity,  lavish  extravagance,  capacity  for 
spending,  and  deep-rooted  belief  that  there  was  no 
difference  between  gold  coins  and  stage  money,  the 
learned  Klondiker  was  a  combination  of  Monte 

127 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Cristo,  Boni  de  Castellane,  Coal-Oil  Johnny,  and 
Alcibiades — only  more  so.  But  his  feverish  efforts 
were  all  in  vain — he  only  grew  richer !  If  he  decided 
to  give  a  million  to  a  newsboy  who  was  polite,  that 
same  moment  he  would  be  sure  to  get  a  cablegram 
from  one  of  his  superintendents  that  the  vein  had 
widened  to  three  miles  and  the  assays  jumped  to 
three  hundred  thousand  dollars  a  ton. 

Parkhurst  finished  by  saying  that  Jerningham 
had  no  use  for  women.  In  divers  countries  world- 
famous  sirens  had  sung  to  him — in  vain.  He  was 
the  kind  that  registered  zero,  even  though  plunged 
to  the  chin  in  Vesuvian  lava.  So  the  dear  things 
might  as  well  save  time,  breath,  and  muscular 
exertion;  he  would  have  none  of  them,  no  matter 
what  their  age,  color  of  hair,  temperament,  accom 
plishments,  or  even  faces  might  be.  He  was  arrow- 
proof  and  Cupid  had  given  up  trying.  Still,  there 
must  be  One — somewhere! 

When  J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst  went  to  the  Hotel 
Brabant  on  Monday  morning  in  the  hope  of  a  second- 
day  story,  he  was  not  sure  how  Jerningham  would 
take  his  masterpiece.  He  was  going  so  early  in  the 
hope  of  shunting  off  the  head-line  artists  of  the 
afternoon  papers,  for  all  that  he  had  begged  Stewart 
to  fix  it  so  that  nobody  got  to  Jerningham  before  the 
Planet  man  turned  up. 

As  he  entered  the  lobby  he  saw  in  a  corner  lounge 
five  reporters  from  the  yellows,  three  photographers 
from  same,  a  professor  from  the  Afternoon  Three- 
Center,  and  a  "psychological  portraitist,"  feminine 
and  fat,  but  dressed  with  unusual  care  and  even 
piquancy,  from  a  magazine.  He  saw  Jerningham's 
finish — not ! 

128 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

The  competitors  were  too  busy  talking  to  see 
J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst,  author  of  the  day's  sensa 
tion,  walk  up  to  the  desk  and  greet  Stewart  affec 
tionately.  They  did  not  see  J.  W.  P.  turn  sharply, 
approach  a  well-built,  square-shouldered  man,  with 
an  outdoor  complexion,  who  had  just  emerged  from 
the  elevator,  and  shake  hands  warmly. 

After  one  and  a  half  seconds  of  dialogue,  consisting 
of  "Good  morning!"  and  "Good  morning!"  J. 
Willoughby  cleverly  realized  that  Mr.  Alfred  Jerning- 
ham  could  not  possibly  have  read  the  article.  On 
general  principles  he  took  the  Klondiker  to  one  end 
of  the  corridor,  out  of  sight  of  the  other  reporters. 

"I  am  very  anxious  to  make  arrangements  to 
store  my  gold  in  some  bank's  vaults.  I  don't  know 
any  bank — that  is,  I  have  no  account  in  any;  and 
I  wondered  if  I  needed  to  be  introduced." 

Jerningham  looked  anxiously  at  Parkhurst. 

"Of  course!"  said  J.  Willoughby,  and  immediately 
looked  alarmed.  "Of  course!  They  are  very  par 
ticular — very!  The  good  ones,  you  know.  A  man's 
bank  is  like  a  man's  club — it  can  give  him  a  social 
standing  or  it  can  prove  he  hasn't  any."  He  looked 
at  his  Klondike  friend  with  a  frown  of  anxiety. 

"I  never  thought  of  that  side  of  it.  But  I  can  see 
there  is  much  in  what  you  say.  I  should  like  to 
put  the  gold  in  the  VanTwiller  Trust  Company." 

"Fine!  I  think  I  can  help  you.  I'll  call  up  our 
Wall  Street  man  and  he  will  make  the  trust  company 
take  it — unless  he  thinks  there  is  another  still  better. 
Let's  go  to  your  room  and  telephone  from  there; 
and  we'll  tell  Stewart  to  tell  the  telephone  operator 
not  to  bother  us — what?" 

J.  Willoughby  intended  that  Jerningham  should 

129 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

be  the  sole  and  exclusive  property  of  the  Planet. 
From  Jerningham's  sumptuous  room  he  called  up 
the  office,  ordered  a  corps  of  photographers  to  the 
battlefield  to  take  pictures  of  sundry  loads  of  gold 
on  trucks  on  their  way  to  the  great  vaults,  escorted 
by  the  Planet's  special  commissioner  in  one  of  the 
armored  automobiles  which  the  Planet  supplied  to 
its  bright  young  men. 

Then  he  called  up  Amos  F.  Kidder,  the  Planet's 
financial  editor;  and  Kidder,  who,  of  course,  knew 
the  president  of  the  VanTwiller  Trust  Company, 
Mr.  Ashton  Welles,  hustled  thitherward  and  made 
all  arrangements,  including  the  securing  of  the 
trucks  owned  by  Tommy  O'Loughlin,  who  did  all 
the  gold- trucking  for  W.  H.  Garrettson  &  Company, 
Wolff,  Herzog  &  Company,  and  other  gold-shipping 
banking  firms.  Photographers  were  duly  stationed 
at  the  various  points  by  which  the  aureate  procession 
would  pass. 

Mr.  J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst  had  the  boxes  of 
gold-dust  taken  out  by  the  ash-and-cinder  exit, 
caused  his  fellow-reporters  to  be  " tipped  off"  by 
hall-boys  that  the  gold  would  be  taken  away  at 
twelve-thirty  sharp  to  the  Metropolitan  National 
Bank  vaults,  and  then  took  Jerningham  in  the 
Planet's  automobile  and  followed  the  trucks. 

In  Wall  Street  Parkhurst  introduced  Jerningham 
to  the  waiting  Kidder,  and  Kidder  introduced  Jer 
ningham  to  the  waiting  Mr.  Welles.  The  gold  was 
carried  down  to  the  vaults.  Jerningham  separated 
twenty  boxes  from  the  heap. 

"I'd  like  to  have  these  cashed,"  he  said,  with  that 
delightful  humor  of  all  very  rich  men.  And  every 
body  within  hearing  laughed,  as  everybody  always 

130 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

laughs  at  the  so-delightful  humor  of  all  very  rich 
men.  There  was  not  a  clerk  in  the  trust  company 
who  did  not  repeat  the  historic  remark  at  home  that 
night. 

Word  of  what  was  happening  went  about,  and  soon 
the  great  little  narrow  street  was  blocked  by  people 
who  wished  to  see  six  or  eight  millions  go  into  a 
place  where  there  were  one  hundred  and  fifty.  But 
there  was  this  difference — the  one  hundred  and  fifty 
already  there  would  stay  there;  but  a  handful  or 
two  of  the  six  or  eight  might  be  distributed  among 
those  present  by  the  latest  Coal-Oil  Johnny  from  the 
Klondike.  The  hope  of  a  stray  nugget  or  two  kept 
two  thousand  busy  people  about  the  doors  of  the 
VanT wilier  Trust  Company  nearly  two  hours. 

As  for  Jerningham,  the  trust  company  was  to 
send  the  twenty  boxes  of  gold-dust  to  the  Assay 
Office  and  credit  Mr.  Jerningham 's  account  with  the 
proceeds  of  the  sale  thereof.  Two  days  later  Mr. 
Alfred  Jerningham  had  to  his  credit  in  the  Van- 
Twiller  Trust  Company  $1,115,675.28;  and  in  the 
vaults  boxes  containing,  as  per  his  most  conservative 
estimates,  gold-dust  valued  at  six  millions  and  a 
half.  And  everybody  knew  it — the  Planet  saw  to 
that.  Great  potentialities  in  that  golden  fame  of 
Jerningham's — what  ? 

in 

The  Planet's  official  version  of  the  Jerningham 
affair,  and  the  flood  of  sensational  literature  turned 
loose  on  the  community  by  the  other  papers, 
made  the  Klondiker's  name  as  familiar  to  New- 
Yorkers  as  a  certain  breakfast-food  advertisement. 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

His  daily  mail  was  enormous,  especially  after  the 
newspapers  said  that  he  was  looking  for  a  house  in 
which  to  entertain.  "The  richest  bachelor  in  the 
world,"  he  was  called,  and  the  real-estate  agents 
acted  accordingly.  So  did  no  end  of  unattached 
females  of  dubious  age,  but  of  not  at  all  dubious  in 
tentions.  Also  it  became  known  that  he  needed  a 
social  secretary  to  guide  him  in  two  things — the  two 
things  being  whom  to  invite  and  how  to  spend  six 
hundred  thousand  dollars  a  year  in  entertaining 
those  who  were  invited  by  the  social  adviser. 

The  applications  came  by  the  dozen — in  the  strict 
est  confidence.  If  somebody  had  said  this  aloud  in 
the  hearing  of  society,  society  would  have  laughed 
scornfully.  A  gentleman  was  always  a  gentleman, 
and  could  never,  never  be  secretary  to  a  parvenu! 
But,  for  all  that,  there  were  scores  of  well-born  men 
who  appeared  willing  enough — don't  you  know? — to 
help  spend  the  six  hundred  thousand  a  year.  Or 
else  some  historic  names  were  forged  by  dastards. 
The  Planet's  society  editor,  who  would  never  allow 
herself  to  be  called  editress,  proved  invaluable  as  a 
living  Who's  Who,  and  demonstrated  her  worth 
to  her  paper  by  making  connections  that  would 
further  her  work;  for  she  was  much  sought  by 
people  who  wished  introductions  to  Mr.  Jer- 
ningham.  They  would  trade  with  her — items  for 
letters. 

It  helped  all  concerned  that  not  only  Parkhurst, 
but  the  rest  of  the  kind-hearted  space-grabbers,  in 
formed  the  world  that  the  possessor  of  the  income 
of  six  hundred  thousand  a  year  was  a  fount  of  erudi 
tion,  and  withal  a  man  of  the  world,  with  exquisite 
manners — invulnerable  to  the  optical  artillery  of  the 

132 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

fairest  sirens  on  earth.  And  always  the  six  hundred 
thousand  dollars  a  year  to  spend,  so  that  the  beastly 
stuff  would  not  accumulate  and  choke  up  the  passages 
of  the  palace  he  proposed  to  build!  That  was  how 
Francis  Wolfe  came  to  be  introduced  to  Mr.  Jerning- 
ham  by  J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst,  and  how  the 
position  was  delicately  offered  to  him,  and  how  F. 
Wolfe  delicately  accepted. 

A  fine-looking,  well-built  young  fellow,  this  Frank 
— dark-eyed,  black-haired,  with  a  wonderfully  clean 
pink  but  virile  complexion  that  made  him  physi 
cally  very  attractive.  In  those  Broadway  restau 
rants  that  have  become  institutions  Francis  Wolfe 
was  himself  an  institution.  His  debts  were  dis 
cussed  as  freely  as  the  cost  of  gasoline.  And  yet 
the  chorus  contingent  and  their  lady  friends,  con 
sisting  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  all  the  world, 
not  only  preferred,  but  publicly  and  on  the  slightest 
provocation  proclaimed  their  preference  for,  Frank 
Wolfe  penniless  to  almost  any  one  else — short  of 
millions.  But  if  Frank  Wolfe  was  the  chorus-girls' 
pet,  Mr.  Francis  Wolfe  was  the  only  brother  of  Mrs. 
John  Burt  and  Mrs.  Sydney  Walsingham,  and  favo 
rite  nephew  of  old  Mrs.  Stimson.  And  everybody 
knew  what  that  meant! 

J.  Willoughby  Parkhurst  left  them  alone,  even  if 
he  was  a  reporter. 

"If  you  do  not  mind  talking  business,"  said  Jer- 
ningham,  with  a  deprecatory  smile. 

"Not  at  all,"  eagerly  said  young  Wolfe,  who  was 
consumed  by  curiosity  to  listen  to  the  golden  statis 
tics.  "In  fact,"  he  added,  with  a  burst  of  boyish 
candor,  "I'd  be  glad  to  have  you." 

"You  are  a  nice  boy!"  said  Jerningham,  so  grate- 
133 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

fully  and  non-familiarly  that  Frank  could  not  find 
fault  with  him. 

"I  need  a  friend,"  continued  Jerningham.  ''I 
know  friendship  cannot  be  bought.  It  grows — but 
there  must  be  a  seed.  It  may  be  that  after  you 
know  me  better  you  will  give  me  your  friendship. 
That  is  for  the  future.  I  also  need  a  man!  A  man 
whom  I  can  trust!  A  man,  young  Mr.  Francis 
Wolfe,"  he  said,  with  a  sternness  that  impressed 
young  Mr.  Francis  Wolfe,  "who  will  not  laugh  at 
me!" 

Frank  was  not  an  intellectual  giant,  but  neither 
was  he  an  utter  ass.  He  said,  very  seriously,  "Go 
on!" 

"I  am  willing  to  pay  such  a  man  twenty-five 
thousand  a  year —  "  He  paused  and  almost  frowned. 

"Go  on!"  again  said  young  Mr.  Wolfe,  looking 
the  Klondiker  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Twenty-five  thousand  dollars — to  begin  with!" 

"Yes?"  said  young  Mr.  Wolfe,  quite  calmly. 

"The  duties  of  such  a  man — and  keep  in  mind 
I  mean  a  man  when  I  say  a  man! — entail  nothing 
whatever  of  a  menial  or  dishonorable  character; 
nothing  to  which  a  gentleman  could  possibly  object. 
But  it  would  necessitate  a  certain  spirit  of  good-will 
toward  me.  I  am  not  only  willing,  but  even  anxious, 
to  pay  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year,  and  all 
traveling  expenses,  to  a  clean-minded  young  man 
who,  for  all  his  wild-oat  sowing,  is  a  gentleman 
and  will  learn  to  like  me  enough  not  to  laugh  at 
me  when  I  intrust  him  with  the  secret  desire  of 
my  heart." 

Before  Frank's  thoughts  could  crystallize  into 
the  definite  suspicion  that  Jerningham  wanted  to  be 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

helped  to  climb  socially,  Jerningham  went  on  so 
coldly  that  again  young  Wolfe  was  impressed: 

"You  will  admit,  Mr.  Wolfe,  that  a  man  who  has 
prospected  all  over  North  America  from  the  Rio 
Grande  to  the  Arctic  Circle,  and  who  has,  unfortu 
nately,  been  compelled  " — he  rose,  went  to  his  bureau, 
brought  out  two  revolvers  of  a  rather  old-fashioned 
kind — "compelled  against  his  will  to  draw  first" — 
he  showed  the  young  man  about  a  dozen  notches 
in  the  handle  of  one  of  them — "one  who  fears  no 
man  and  no  government  and  no  blackmailer;  who 
owns  the  richest  placer  mines  in  the  world — is  not 
apt  to  be  an  emotional  ass!"  There  was  a  pause. 
But  Jerningham  continued  before  young  Wolfe  could 
speak:  "Neither  is  he  a  damned  fool — what?" 

Mr.  Francis  Wolfe  felt  he  had  to  say  something, 
so  he  said,  "I  shouldn't  think  so." 

He  felt  that  Jerningham  was  not  a  man  to  trifle 
with — a  tough  customer  in  a  rough-and-tumble  fight ; 
a  man  who  had  taken  life  in  preserving  his  own; 
altogether  a  man,  a  character,  who  would  make  an 
admirable  topic  of  conversation  with  both  men  and 
women — therefore  a  man  to  be  interested  in. 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Ashton  Welles?"  asked  Jer 
ningham,  almost  sharply. 

"Not  intimately." 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Ashton  Welles?" 

"Same  answer." 

"Ever  dine  at  their  house?" 

Frank  thought  a  moment.  He  had  dined  at  so 
many  people's  houses.  "No,"  he  answered,  finally. 

"Could  you?" 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Are  your  relations  with  Welles  such,  or  could 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

they  be  cultivated  so,  as  to  make  him  invite  you — 
not  me — you! — to  dine  at  his  house?" 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Jerningham,"  and  young  Mr. 
Wolfe's  face  flushed,  "a  fellow  doesn't  do  some 
things  for  money;  and  this  is  one — 

"I  know  it!  Not  for  money.  For  friendship, 
yes!  That's  why — you  understand  now,  don't  you?" 
He  looked  so  earnestly  at  young  Wolfe  that  Frank 
absolved  him  of  wrong-doing. 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  the  young  man. 

"Did  you  ever  know  Randolph  Deering,  who  used 
to  be  president  of  the  VanT wilier  Trust  Company?" 

"Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Welles's  father?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  recall  speaking  to  him  more  than  to  say 
'How  do  you  do?'  I  don't  remember  when  or  how 
I  met  him." 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Deering,  Mrs.  Welles's 
mother?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  know  anybody  who  does?" 

"I  suppose  I  do." 

"Anybody  who  would  give  you  a  letter  of  intro 
duction?" 

"I  don't  know.  If  my  aunt  or  my  sisters  know 
her  it  would  be  easy.  But,  of  course,  I  should  have 
to  know  first  why  I  should  want  to  meet  her." 

"Of  course.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  about 
Mrs.  Welles's  sister,  Naida  Deering?" 

"Didn't  know  she  had  a  sister." 

"Then,  of  course,  you  never  saw  her." 

Francis  Wolfe  thought  a  long  time.  His  mind 
did  not  work  very  quickly  at  any  time.  At  length  he 
said:  "I  don't  think  there  could  have  been  a  sister, 

136 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY   WRIT 

for  I  never  heard  of  her  having  any;  indeed,  I  dis 
tinctly  remember  hearing  that  she  was  an  only 
child.  Maybe  she  was  a  cousin  or — er — something 
of  the  sort.'1 

"No;  Naida  was  a  sister;  a  good  deal  older  and — 
But  we  are  drifting  away  from  business.  Will  you 
accept  my  proposition  to  be  my — er — adviser  in 
certain  matters  on  which  I  think  you  are  qualified 
to  give  advice,  and  accept  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars  a  year?'* 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  speak  frankly ?" 

"Certainly  not.    Speak  ahead." 

"Are  you  offering  me  this — er — salary  when,  of 
course,  I  know  I  am  not  worth  a  da — a  cent  in  busi 
ness;  I  mean,  isn't  it  really  in  exchange  for  what 
I  may  be  able  to  do  for  you  in  a — a  social  way? 
You  know  what  I  mean." 

"No,  sir!"  said  Jerningham,  decisively.  "Not  for 
an  instant !  I  do  not,  dear  Mr.  Wolfe,  give  an  infini 
tesimal  damn  for  what  is  called  society." 

"But  I  thought  Jimmy  Parkhurst  told  me — " 

"I  cannot  help  what  Jimmy  Parkhurst  told  you; 
but  I  tell  you  that  I  like  interesting  people,  and  I 
don't  care  who  or  what  they  are  socially.  I  hate 
bores — whether  they  are  hod-carriers  or  dukes.  If 
I  can  meet  people  who  will  instruct  me  when  I  want 
to  learn,  or  amuse  me  when  I  want  to  laugh,  I'm 
satisfied.  And  I  can  always  meet  that  kind  without 
anybody's  help.  You  know  how  it  is."  Then  he 
spoke  perhaps  thirty  words  in  a  foreign  language 
that  Frank  thought  must  be  Hungarian.  "You 
remember  your  Latin,  of  course.  That's  from 
Petronius." 

"I  thought  so!"  said  Frank  Wolfe,  the  pet  of  the 

10  137 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

chorus-girls,  laughing  to  himself.  Remember  his 
Latin!  He?  Haw! 

"It  is  from  his  'Cena  Trimalchionis. '  The  arbiter 
elegantiarum  knew  what  social  climbers  might  be 
qxpected  to  do,  though  I  neither  boast  of  my 
money  nor  do  I  eat  with  my  knife.  The  Latin  of 
the  'Cena'  is  difficult — too  slangy,  full  of  the  sermo 
plebeius." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  agreecj  Frank,  so  gravely  that  it  was 
all  he  could  do  to  keep  from  laughing  at  himself. 
This  Klondiker  was  not  only  a  gun-fighter  and  richer 
than  Crcesus,  but  also  a  highbrow !  Could  you  beat 
it? 

"Will  you  accept  my  offer?  Will  you  try  to  be 
my  friend?" 

"Suppose  I  find  I  can't?" 

"I'll  be  sorry.  The  money  is  nothing.  The  inabil 
ity  to  make  a  friend  will  be  my  real  loss." 

"Well,  we  might  try  six  months."  He  looked 
inquiringly  at  Jerningham.  "I  don't  exactly  know 
what  you  wish  me  to  do." 

"Become  my  friend!  You  yourself  said  some 
things  cannot  be  done  for  money  by  a  gentleman; 
but  there  is  nothing — so  long  as  it  is  not  dishonor 
able — that  a  gentleman  may  not  do  for  a  friend. 
Shall  I  explain  a  little  more?"  He  looked  anxiously 
at  young  Mr.  Wolfe. 

"Yes — do,"  said  Frank.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
this  singular  man  was  in  reality  proceeding  with  a 
curious  delicacy. 

"Just  as  soon  as  you  feel  you  know  me  I  will  ask 
you  to  help  me.  Mrs.  Deering  is  now  abroad.  Mrs. 
Welles  may  be  of  help  to  us.  Mr.  Wolfe,  now  that  I 
am  not  so  poor  as  I  was,  I  want  to  find  Naida  Deer- 

138 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

ing,  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved — and,  God  help 
me,  the  only  woman  I  still  love!" 

Jerningham  rose  hastily  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  his  face  persistently  turned  away  from 
Wolfe.  He  walked  to  a  window  and  stared  at  the 
sky  a  long  time.  Finally  he  turned  to  the  young 
man,  who  was  watching  him,  and  said,  with  pro 
found  conviction: 

11  Amare  et  sapere  moo  deo  conceditur!" 

Young  Mr.  Wolfe  at  first  felt  like  saying,  "Yes, 
indeed!"  which  would,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  have 
been  a  very  pat  retort.  But  he  weakened  and  said, 
"What  is  that  quotation  from?" 

"Publilius  Syrus.  Mr.  Wolfe,  I  must  find  her. 
And  of  course  I  can't  employ  a  private  detective. 
You  understand?" 

"Yes.    That  is  true,"  said  Frank. 

"In  her  youth  something  happened."  Young  Mr. 
Wolfe  sat  up  straight.  Here  at  last  was .  something 
really  vital!  Jerningham  proceeded:  "She  was  a 
high-strung  girl — pure  as  gold.  Her  very  innocence 
made  her  indiscreet.  There  was  no  scandal — no, 
indeed!  But  she  disappeared.  And  now,  when  I 
have  more  than  enough  money  for  the  two  of  us, 
I  wish  to  find  her.  If  I  don't — of  what  possible  good 
are  my  millions?  Tell  me  that!" 

Jerningham  glared  so  angrily  at  young  Mr.  Wolfe 
that  young  Mr.  Wolfe  felt  a  slight  spasm  of  concern. 
The  Klondiker  had  a  metallic  gray  eye  that  at  times 
menaced  like  cold  steel. 

"Excuse  me!"  said  Jerningham,  contritely.  "My 
dear  boy,  do  you  know  what  it  is  to  go  chasing  over 
the  landscape  for  years  and  years  in  the  hope  of 
striking  it  some  day  so  as  to  be  able  to  go  back  to 

139 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

your  native  city  and  marry  the  one  woman  in  all 
the  world — particularly  when  she  was  one  whom 
her  parents,  not  understanding  her  nature,  prac 
tically  disowned?  In  all  my  prospecting  what  I 
wanted  was  to  find  Naida 's  mine — gold  by  the  ton — 
so  I  could  buy  back  her  place  in  society!" 

There  was  such  determination  in  Jerningham's 
voice  and  look  that  young  Wolfe  felt  a  thrill  of  ad 
miration  and,  with  it,  a  distinct  masculine  liking. 

"That's  a  great  story!"  he  said.  "I  never  heard 
of  your — er — Miss  Naida.  She  never  married,  I 
suppose?" 

"I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  She  promised  to 
wait  for  me.  The  Deerings  used  to  live  in  Jersey; 
and  living  in  Jersey  when  I  was  a  kid  wasn't  what  it  is 
to-day.  They  were  not  prominent  in  society.  Of 
course  the  Deerings  kept  it  quiet.  I  think  Mrs. 
Welles  may  know  where  her  sister  is — the  sister  who 
is  never  mentioned  by  her  own  flesh  and  blood! 
Mrs.  Deering,  of  course,  does;  but  she  is  abroad 
somewhere.  I  must  find  Naida,  I  tell  you — and — ' ' 

Jerningham  was  silent,  but  Wolfe  saw  that  he  was 
breathing  quickly,  as  though  he  had  been  running. 
Frank  never  read  anything  except  the  afternoon 
papers,  love-letters,  and  the  more  romantic  of  the 
best-sellers.  He  now  very  laboriously  constructed 
a  romance  of  Jerningham's  life  that  became  so  thrill 
ing  it  took  away  his  own  breath.  It  made  him  feel 
very  kindly  toward  the  new  Jerningham — every 
body  feels  kindly  toward  his  own  creations;  and  so 
he  said,  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm : 

"By  George!  I'll  help  you!" 

And  thus  was  begun  the  pact  between  the  two 
men. 

140 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

IV 

On  the  very  next  morning  Mr.  Jerningham,  in 
stead  of  going  to  Wall  Street  as  was  his  custom, 
went  instead  to  Mrs.  Charlton  Morris's  Agency  for 
Trained  Nurses. 

An  empress — no  less — sat  at  a  desk.  She  was  not, 
however,  one  of  those  empresses  who  change  the 
destiny  of  nations  by  their  beauty.  She  had  merely 
an  arrogance  more  than  royal. 

"I  should  like  to  see  Mrs.  Charlton  Morris,"  said 
Jerningham,  briskly. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Morris,"  she  said. 

You  at  once  perceived  that  she  was  even  more 
than  imperial.  She  was  a  woman  of  forty,  dark, 
slender,  with  shell-rimmed,  round  lenses  that  gave 
her  that  look  between  a  Chinese  philosopher  and  an 
ancient  owl,  which  those  tortoise-shell  goggles  al 
ways  do.  You  also  obtained  the  impression  that  a 
completely  successful  operation  had  removed  Mrs. 
Morris's  sense  of  humor. 

"I  should  like,  if  you  please — "  began  Jerning 
ham;  but  Mrs.  Morris  interrupted  with  an  effect  as 
of  thrusting  an  icicle  into  the  interior  mechanism 
of  a  clock. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  we  must  know  with 
whom  we  are  dealing.  What  is  the  name,  please?" 

11 1  prefer  not  to  give  you  mine  yet." 

"Oh  no,  sir;  I  must  know." 

"Suppose  I  had  given  you  a  false  one,  how  would 
you  have  been  the  wiser?" 

"Oh,  but  also  you  must  give  me  the  name  of  your 
doctor." 

"He  sent  me  here." 

141 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"And  who  is  he,  sir?"  • 

From  her  voice  and  her  look  you  gathered  that 
she  was  in  charge  of  a  hospital  and  was  obtaining 
indispensable  clinical  data. 

"Madam,"  said  Jerningham,  very  coldly  indeed, 
"you  talk  like  the  census  man.  Would  you  also  like 
to  know  my  age,  sex,  and  color?" 

"We  never,"  retorted  Mrs.  Morris,  imperturbably, 
"do  business  with  strangers." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  get  a  letter  from  the  Presi 
dent  of  the  United  States?  I  know  him  pretty  well. 
Or  from  my  bankers?  They  are  known  even  in 
Brooklyn." 

"We  are  here  to  supply  trained  nurses  to  people 
whose  physicians  we  know." 

A  trained  nurse  must  have  unfailing  good  humor 
— it  is  part  of  her  professional  requirements.  But 
a  purveyor  of  trained  nurses  may  permit  herself 
much  dignity,  as  though  her  mission  in  life  consisted 
of  fitting  nurses  to  cases — the  best  nurse  for  the 
worst  case. 

"My  doctor,"  said  Jerningham,  "is  Dr.  Jewett." 

It  was  the  name  of  a  very  great  surgeon. 

"Ah,  yes.  Surgical  case!  Yes!  I  have  Miss 
Sennett  and  Miss  Audrey.  Dr.  Jewett  knows  them 
very  well." 

"Kindly  wait  a  second!  I  must  see  them  myself. 
And  it  is  not  a  surgical  case.  It  is  no  case  at  all — 
yet.  Show  me  the  girls!" 

"Sir,  this  is  not  an  intelligence-office;    but — ' 

' '  I  know  there  is  no  intelligence  in  this  office.  This 
is  merely  the  anteroom  of  a  hospital  and  you  are 
the  superintendent.  By  rights  you  ought  to  be  on  the 
faculty.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  pay  for  any  loss 

142 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

of  time  or  trouble  to  which  you  and  the  young  ladies 
may  be  put." 

"Must  she  be  young?"  asked  Mrs.  Morris. 

Her  voice  was  at  least  thirty  degrees  below  zero, 
for  all  that  there  was  no  devilishness  about  Mr. 
Jerningham.  He  said: 

"Yes;  and  good-looking  —  not  a  girl  in  her 
teens,  but  a  young  woman.  I  should  say,  with 
out  meaning  to  be  personal,  about  your  age,  Mrs. 
Morris." 

It  was  plain  that  Mrs.  Morris  had  almost  super 
human  control  over  her  facial  muscles — she  did  not 
beam  on  him ! 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  in  a  quite  human  voice. 
This  man  was,  after  all,  neither  rude  nor  blind. 
"A  woman — " 

"About  thirty — or  a  little  less,"  said  Jerningham. 
He  looked  at  Mrs.  Morris's  face  and  nodded  con- 
firmatively. 

"Exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Morris,  genially.  First 
impressions  are  so  apt  to  be  unfair ! 

"I'll  be  more  than  satisfied  with  one  of  your  age 
and  good  loo  —  and  —  er  —  appearance  "  —  here  the 
Morris  smile  irrepressibly  made  its  debut — "and  also 
tactful.  It  is  an  unusual  case.  It  will  necessitate 
going  to  Europe." 

"With  the  patient?" 

"For  the  patient,"  said  Jerningham,  and  waited. 

"If  you  will  tell  me  a  little  bit  more  about  the 
case — "  said  Mrs.  Morris,  encouragingly.  She  had 
just  taken  a  good  look  at  the  pearl  in  the  scarf  of 
this  delightful  judge  of  ages — at  the  lowest  estima 
tion,  five  thousand  dollars! 

"My—      I—      We  have  reason  to  believe  that  a — 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

friend  is  ill  in  London.  Kidneys.  We  wish  her  to  take 
care  of  herself.  She  is  a  woman  of  fifty-odd.  We 
want  a  nurse,  refined,  well-bred,  good-looking,  and 
competent — like  yourself;  so  that  she  could  be  a 
companion  and  at  home  among  wealthy  people. 
You  know  what  I  mean."  He  paused. 

"Perfectly,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Morris,  voraciously. 
Did  she  not  know  Mrs.  Morris? 

"It  would  be  nice  to  find  such  a  nurse — and,  if 
possible,  also  one  to  whom  the  fact  that  she  is  going 
to  visit  England,  and  possibly  other  countries,  may 
be  a  sort  of  compensation  for  her  sudden  departure 
from  New  York.  Of  course  she  will  be  paid  all  her 
traveling  and  living  expenses — first-class  all  through 
— and  her  regular  honorarium.  I  believe  it  is  thirty- 
five  dollars  a  week.  As  I  am  leaving  New  York 
myself  soon,  I'll  pay  in  advance,  and  will  leave 
instructions  with  my  bankers  to  honor  any  of  your 
drafts,  Mrs.  Morris.  It  will  be  a  good  opportunity 
for  the  young  lady  to  know  London — and  you  know 
how  attractive  it  is — and  Paris!" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Morris,  suddenly 
looking  like  Baedeker. 

"The  young  lady — I  am  sorry  you  could  not  go 
in  her  place !  Yes,  I  am ! — will  live  at  the  same  hotel 
with  the  patient  and  become  acquainted  with  her — 
and  advise  her  to  see  a  physician  regularly — a 
specialist  in  kidney  diseases.  We  think  her  only 
daughter  ought  to  be  with  her.  But  you  can't 
say  anything  to  either  of  them,  because  if  the 
mother  doesn't  think  she  is  ill  the  daughter  cannot 
know  it,  either.  We  only  suspect  it  is  Bright's. 
You  can't  afford  to  wait  until  you  have  to  go  to  bed 
with  Bright's- — can  you?" 

144 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

"No,  indeed!"  gravely  agreed  Mrs.  Morris,  special 
ist. 

"So  now  you  know  what  sort  of  a  girl  I  wish — one 
who  will  be  there  if  the  trouble  should  take  a  sudden 
turn  for  the  worse;  one  who  will  induce  the  old  lady 
to  consult  a  physician.  Do  I  have  to  give  a  pre 
liminary  fee?" 

"Not  at  all.  Call  this  afternoon  at  four  and  I'll 
try  to  have  one  of  my  best  nurses  here.  She  is — 
well,  quite  young;  in  fact" — with  what  might  be 
called  a  desiccated  archness — ' '  she  is  a  little  younger 
than  I  and  quite  pretty.  I  call  her  handsome!" 

Some  women  are  so  sure  of  their  own  position 
that  they  do  not  fear  competition. 

"Thank  you!  I'll  be  here  at  four,  sharp."  And 
Mr.  Jerningham  went  away  without  having  given 
his  name  to  Mrs.  Morris. 

At  four  o'clock  Mr.  Jerningham  called  at  Mrs. 
Charlton  Morris's  agency  and  had  an  interview 
with  Miss  Kathryn  Keogh.  Mrs.  Morris  gave  them 
the  use  of  her  own  little  private  office;  Jerningham 
very  impressively  waited  for  Miss  Keogh  to  sit  down 
and  then  did  so  himself. 

He  threw  at  Miss  Keogh  one  of  those  inventorying 
looks  that  women  find  so  difficult  to  appear  uncon 
scious  of,  probably  because  they  know  their  own 
weak  points. 

Miss  Keogh  was  beautiful — and  when  an  Irish 
girl  is  beautiful  she  is  beautiful  in  so  many  ways! 
She  had  the  wonderful  complexion  of  her  race  and 
a  mouth  carved  out  of  heaven's  prize  strawberry. 
Her  eyes  were  an  incredibly  deep  blue  when  they 
were  not  an  incredibly  deep  pansy-purple,  and  they 
were  abysses  of  velvet.  In  the  darkness,  without 

HS 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

seeing  them — just  by  remembering  them — you  loved 
those  eyes.  In  the  light,  when  you  could  see  them, 
you  simply  worshiped!  Her  throat  was  one  of  those 
paradoxical  affairs,  soft  and  hard,  which  made  you 
think  at  one  and  the  same  time  of  marble  and  rose- 
leaves — Solomon's  tower  of  ivory,  crowned  by  the 
glory  of  golden-brown  hair,  so  fine  that  you  thought 
of  clouds  of  it ! 

If  you  looked  at  her  eyes  you  suspected,  and  if 
you  looked  at  her  throat  you  were  certain  that  you, 
a  respectable  married  man,  had  in  you  the  makings 
of  a  criminal — the  crime  being  bigamy.  Also  you 
would  have  sworn  to  her  only  too  cheerfully  that  she 
was  the  only  girl  you  had  ever  loved.  With  one 
look,  remember! 

Jerningham  looked  at  her  with  a  cold,  imperson 
ally  appreciative  eye,  as  he  might  have  scrutinized 
a  clock  that  was  both  beautiful  and  costly. 

Miss  Keogh  understood  it  perfectly.  It  piqued 
her,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  instant  adoration. 
Yet  it  was  not  entirely  displeasing.  This  man  knew 
as  a  connoisseur  knows — with  his  head.  That  he 
had  not  permitted  the  silly  heart  to  disturb  the  crit 
ical  faculties  was  less  flattering,  of  course.  It  de 
ferred  the  inevitable  triumph  and  thus  would  make 
it  sweeter. 

"Has  Mrs.  Morris  told  you  what  I  should  like 
you  to  do?"  Jerningham's  voice  was  coldly  emotion 
less,  and  his  gray  eyes  showed  frosty  lights. 

"She  has  told  me  what  you  doubtless  told  her. 
But  I  must  confess  I  am  not  very  clear  in  my  own 
mind,"  answered  Miss  Keogh. 

Her  voice  was  what  you  would  have  expected  an 
artistic  Providence  to  give  her.  It  complemented 

146 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

the  lips.  If  you  closed  your  eyes  and  heard  the  voice 
you  saw  her  eyes  and  felt  the  heavenly  strawberries 
on  your  own  lips! 

Jerningham  had  not  taken  his  cold  eyes  off  her. 
He  asked  as  if  she  were  anybody — a  woman  of 
forty,  for  example,  "Will  you  listen  to  me  care 
fully?" 

"Oh  yes!" 

"I  provide  transportation,  first-class,  to  London. 
I  Pav  y°u  thirty-five  dollars  a  week  for  your  services 
and  allow  ten  dollars  a  day  for  hotel  expenses,  and 
so  on.  At  the  end  of  the  case  your  contingent  fee 
will  depend  upon  your  success.  We  don't  want 
to  skimp — but  we  are  not  throwing  away  money. 
It  may  be  one  hundred  or  five  hundred  dollars. 
But  forget  all  about  it." 

"I  have — in  advance,"  said  the  marvel,  calmly. 

Jerningham  looked  at  her  steadily.  She  looked 
back  unflinchingly  and  yet  not  at  all  defiantly  as  a 
lesser  person  would. 

"If  you  accept  my  offer  you  will  go  when  in  Lon 
don  to  Thornton's  Hotel — an  old-fashioned  but 
very  select  hotel — where  you  will  find  a  nice  room 
reserved  for  you;  I  will  cable  for  it.  It  will  cost 
you  a  guinea  a  day — for  the  room  and  table  board. 
You  will  thus  have  five  dollars  a  day  for  cabs  and 
incidentals.  In  that  hotel  lives  Mrs.  Margaret  Deer- 
ing,  an  elderly  American  widow,  who  looks  healthy 
enough.  We  fear  she  is  not  so  strong  as  she  looks, 
and  don't  want  her  to  be  alone.  But  she  will  not 
take  hints.  I  wish  you  to  make  friends  with  her,  so 
that  if  she  should  become  ill  enough  to  need  atten 
tion  you  may  see  that  she  gets  proper  care  and  in 
duce  her  to  cable  to  her  only  daughter."  He  stopped 

147 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

and  looked  at  Miss  Keogh  inquiringly,  as  if  to  con 
vince  himself  that  Miss  Keogh  had  understood. 

"What,"  said  Miss  Keogh,  calmly,  "is  the  rest 
of  it?"  Her  eyes  were  very  dark.  They  always 
seemed  to  deepen  in  color  when  she  frowned.  She 
always  frowned  when  she  concentrated — all  women 
do,  notwithstanding  their  dread  of  wrinkles. 

Jerningham  stared  at  her.  Then  he  said,  "The 
lady  is  not  insane." 

"Nervous?" 

"Not  yet!" 

"Ah!"  Miss  Keogh  nodded  her  head.  Her  color 
had  risen  somewhat. 

"Is  there  anything  in  what  I  have  said  so  far 
that  makes  you  unwilling  to  take  this  case?"  asked 
Jerningham. 

"Nothing — so  far,"  she  said,  looking  steadily  into 
his  cold,  gray  eyes.  She  was,  of  course,  Irish. 

"Very  well.  You  can  save  her  family  much  wor- 
riment  by  suggesting  to  Mrs.  Deer  ing  that  she  ought 
to  have  a  trained  nurse  in  constant  attendance." 

"By  the  name  of  Keogh?"  interjected  the  most 
wonderful. 

"No.  You  are  supposed  to  be  a  young  lady  with 
an  income  of  your  own.  You  might  explain  that  you 
took  up  trained  nursing  to  help  your  only  brother, 
a  physician." 

"Very  well.    And—'1 

"After  you  meet  Mrs.  Deering  you  might  make 
judicious  remarks  about  her  health." 

"  For  example— " 

"Well,  at  breakfast  you  say:  'You  didn't  sleep 
well  last  night,  did  you?'  If  she  says  no,  you  can 
immediately  suggest  a  physician.  If  she  says  she 

148 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

did,  you  say:  'Well,  there  is  something  wrong  with 
you!  Did  you  ever  have  your  kidneys  examined?' 
A  simple  remark  in  the  proper  tone  of  voice  some 
times  does  it — like,  'Whatever  in  the  world  is  the 
matter  with  you,  dear  Mrs.  Deering?'  You  under 
stand?" 

"If  you  mean  that  I  must  suggest  to  her  that  she 
is  ailing— 

"Precisely.  The  idea  is  not  to  frighten  her  to 
death,  my  dear  young  woman  with  the  beautiful 
but  suspicious  eyes,  but  simply  to  induce  her  to  send 
for  her  only  daughter,  so  that  afterward  the  two  will 
not  be  separated.  And  the  old  lady,  I  may  say  for 
the  benefit  of  your  still  suspicious  eyes,  is  not  very 
rich,  though  the  daughter  is.  So  your  imagination 
need  not  invent  any  devilish  plot.  I  think  you  can 
accomplish  your  work  in  six  weeks.  For  every  day 
under  the  six  weeks  you  will  receive  five  pounds. 
That's  twenty-five  dollars  a  day.  That  is  intended, 
Miss  Keogh,  to  make  you  hurry.  But  you  must 
be  tactful." 

' '  Make  it  a  fixed  sum.  You  look  like  a  clever  man." 

She  looked  at  him  challengingly.  He  stared  back, 
and  gradually  a  look  of  admiration  came  into  his 
eyes.  He  said,  with  a  smile  of  appreciation: 

'  *  You  win !  You  are  certainly  the  most  wonderful 
girl  in  the  world!  I'll  make  it  one  thousand  dollars, 
win,  lose,  or  draw.  But  the  quicker  the  cable 
gram —  " 

" — grams,"  she  corrected — "plural.  For  greater 
effect  at  this  end!" 

' '  — grams !"  he  echoed.  '  *  And  now  you  must  come 
with  me  to  the  bank  to  get  your  letter  of  credit  and 
some  English  money.  I'll  pay  in  advance." 

149 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

He  rose.  Miss  Keogh  motioned  to  him  to  sit 
down  again.  He  did  so  and  looked  at  her  alertly. 
It  might  have  disconcerted  some  girls — but  not  the 
only  absolutely  perfect  one.  Not  at  all! 

"There  remains  something,"  she  said. 

"What?"  he  queried,  sharply. 

"You  forgot  it!"  she  told  him,  with  one  of  those 
utterly  maddening  smiles  of  fqrgiveness  with  which 
beautiful  women  rivet  the  fetters  and  make  one 
grateful. 

' '  What  ?    What  ?"  he  asked,  impatiently. 

"Why?"  she  answered.     "That  is  what!    Why?" 

Her  beautiful  head  nodded  twice  with  a  birdlike 
gracefulness.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright — and  very 
dark!  Her  cheeks  were  flushed.  Her  ripe  lips, 
slightly  parted,  were  overpoweringly  tempting. 

Jerningham  stood  up  again  and  stared  fixedly  at 
her  as  though  he  would  read  miles  and  miles  beyond 
her  wonderful  eyes — into  the  very  depths  of  her  soul! 
He  approached  her  and  held  out  both  his  hands. 
After  a  scarcely  perceptible  hesitation  she  placed 
hers  in  his.  He  shook  them  with  profound  gravity; 
then  bowed  and  raised  her  right  to  his  lips — and 
kissed  it  twice.  Still  holding  her  hands  in  his,  he 
said  to  her,  earnestly : 

"My  dear  child,  you  are  the  most  wonderful 
woman  in  all  the  world.  You  are  simply  the  last 
word  in  utter  perfection.  I  am  a  millionaire,  but 
not  a  crook.  I  am  forty,  but  still  strong.  I  have 
never  been  in  love  with  a  woman;  but  I  now  know 
I  could  be.  If  you  ever  wish  to  marry  for  the  ease 
and  comfort  that  great  wealth  gives,  or  if  you  ever 
feel  like  using  your  wonderful  gifts  to  make  a  man 
who  has  both  money  and  brains  become  an  important 

150 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY   WRIT 

personage  in  the  world — just  say  the  word.  There 
is  nothing — nothing,  do  you  hear? — that  we  could 
not  do  together,  you  and  I.  My  name  is —  He 
paused  and  looked  at  her  as  if  to  make  sure  again. 

"Yes?"  she  said,  in  her  most  heavenly  voice. 
She  released  her  hands,  but  her  eyes  never  left  his. 

"Jerningham." 

''The  Klondike  millionaire  who — " 

"The  same!" 

"Ah!"  said  Miss  Keogh,  calmly,  but  her  flower- 
like  cheeks  were  azalea-pink,  and  her  eyes  were  full 
of  light.  She  had  read  the  Planet's  articles.  She 
did  not  remember  how  many  million  dollars  Jerning- 
ham  was  supposed  to  have;  but  she  did  remember 
how  the  fairest  of  the  fair  had  tried— and  failed! 

"Remember — any  time,  with  or  without  notice. 
My  offer  is  open  until  you  accept  it  or  definitely 
refuse  it.  Perhaps  I  never  could  make  you  love  me; 
but  I  know  I  could  love  you  if  I  let  myself  go." 

"You  have  not  answered  me,"  said  Miss  Keogh. 

"Ask  again,"  he  smiled. 

"Why?"     There  was  no  smile  in  her  eyes. 

It  made  him  serious.     He  answered: 

"For  friendship." 

"To  a  woman?" 

"To  a  man." 

"Again  I  ask,  Why?" 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  he  said: 

"Mrs.  Ashton  Welles  is  the  only  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Deering." 

"And—" 

"She  is  twenty- two." 

"And—" 

"Her  husband  is  fifty-two.     That's  all!" 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Is  it?" 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is — really!1 


"Is  Mr.  Ashton  Welles  your  friend?" 

"No.     But  he  is  no  enemy,  either." 

"No?  But  you  have  a  friend,  a  Mr.  Wolfe — a 
Mr.  Francis  Wolfe?"  She  knew  it  from  a  newspaper 
item. 

But  Mr.  Jerningham  jumped  up  from  his  seat. 
"Marry  me,  dear  girl!  Marry  me,  I  beg  of  you! 
You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world !  You  are  the 
most  beautiful  ever  created  and,  beyond  all  question, 
the  cleverest.  You  are  a  genius !  Why  isn't  all  man 
kind  on  its  knees  worshiping?  Will  you  marry  me? 
Wait!  Don't  speak.  I  know  what  your  answer 
will  be." 

"You  do?"     She  smiled  inscrutably. 

Imagine  the  Sphinx — if  the  Sphinx  were  Irish  and 
very  beautiful — with  those  eyes  and  those  lips! 
Guess?  You  couldn't  guess  where  your  soul  was — 
or  whose! 

"Yes,  I  do,"  answered  Jerningham,  confidently. 
"I  will  write  it  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  prove  it. 
But  first  tell  me  this:  Will  you  take  Mrs.  Deering's 
case?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  said,  "Yes." 

"Very  well."  He  wrote  something  on  one  of  his 
cards,  doubled  it  so  she  could  not  see  what  he  had 
written,  and  gave  it  to  her,  saying,  "Now  answer  me: 
Will  you  marry  me?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  long  time.  He  met  her  gaze 
squarely.  Presently  she  said,  very  seriously: 

"Not  yet!" 

"Look  in  the  card,"  he  said,  also  very  seriously. 

She  did.     It  said:    Not  yet! 

152 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

A  vague  alarm  came  into  her  purple-blue  eyes. 
She  was  on  the  point  of  speaking,  but  he  held  up  his 
hand,  and  said,  earnestly: 

"Please  don't  say  it.  We'll  meet  in  London. 
You  will  enjoy  the  Continent  later  on.  Now  let  us 
go  and  get  your  letter  of  credit,  and  see  whether  you 
like  the  stateroom  that  I  ordered  reserved."  They 
did. 

On  the  next  day  Jerningham's  limousine  took 
Miss  Keogh  and  her  hand-luggage  to  the  steamer.- 
Jerningham  was  there  to  see  her  off.  She  had  in 
vited  a  dozen  of  her  friends  to  do  the  same,  and  they 
were  there — all  of  them  women  and  most  of  them 
frankly  envious,  for  her  stateroom  was  full  of  beauti 
ful  flowers  and  baskets  of  wonderful  fruit — quite  as 
if  she  already  were  a  millionaire! 

As  she  said  good-by  to  Jerningham  there  was  in 
her  eyes  a  look  of  intelligent,  almost  cold-blooded, 
gratitude  which  seemed  to  embrace  Mr.  Jerning 
ham's  kindness,  his  though  tfulness,  and  his  bank 
account. 

"I  wish  you  a  very  pleasant  voyage!"  he  said. 
"Think  over  my  offer.  When  you  get  to  London 
will  you  mail  these  letters  for  me?  Remember,  you 
are  to  cable  if  you  need  anything,  money  or  advice 
— or  a  husband.  And  cable  at  once  if  Mrs.  Deering 
cables.  Good-by!  Bon  voyage!" 

When  Miss  Keogh  came  to  open  the  package  of 
letters  she  found  in  it  thirty-three,  stamped  with 
British  stamps,  on  stationery  of  Thornton's  Hotel! 
They  were  addressed  in  a  woman's  handwriting  to 
various  business  houses,  some  of  which  she  recog 
nized  as  manufacturers  of  medical  goods  and  agents 
of  mineral  waters  of  the  kind  used  by  people  who 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

suffer  from  kidney  diseases.  It  made  her  think 
that  if — between  the  deluge  of  medical  prospectuses 
and  Miss  Keogh's  efforts — Mrs.  Deering  did  not 
cable  for  her  only  daughter  it  would  be  a  wonder! 
Jerningham  was  neglecting  nothing  to  succeed. 


Frank  Wolfe's  first  task  in  his  new  and  now 
famous  job  consisted  of  helping  Jerningham  buy  two 
automobiles.  Then,  when  the  weather  permitted, 
they  toured  Westchester  County  and  Long  Island. 

Usually  they  took  along  some  of  Frank's  men 
friends.  It  was  pleasant  work- — at  the  rate  of  twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars  a  year. 

Jerningham  did  not  again  refer  to  his  love-affair, 
and  Frank  could  not  very  well  allude  to  it;  but 
it  was  perfectly  plain  to  the  young  man  that  within 
a  very  short  time  their  friendship  would  be  suffi 
ciently  strong  to  justify  Mr.  Jerningham  in  asking 
Frank  to  help  actively  in  the  search  of  the  vanished 
Naida  Deering. 

One  day  Mr.  Jerningham  waited  in  vain  for  young 
Mr.  Wolfe.  They  had  planned  to  go  to  Mount 
Kisco  to  look  at  a  farm  that  was  offered  for  sale, 
Mr.  Jerningham  having  developed  the  usual  million 
aire's  desire  to  own  an  estate.  At  one  o'clock  the 
telephone-bell  rang.  Jerningham  answered  in  per 
son.  He  heard  a  feminine  voice  say  that  Mr.  Wolfe 
regretted  that  a  severe  indisposition  had  prevented 
him  from  going  as  usual  to  Mr.  Jerningham's  rooms, 
but  he  hoped  to  be  sufficiently  recovered  to  have  that 
pleasure  on  the  next  day. 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

Jerningham  merely  said,  "Say  I  hope  it  is  nothing 
serious — and  ask  him,  please,  whether  there  is  any 
thing  I  can  do." 

Silence.  Then:  "He  says,  'No— thanks!'  It  is 
nothing  very  serious." 

"Tell  him  not  to  come  down  until  he  has  entirely 
recovered  and  to  take  good  care  of  himself.  Good- 
by!" 

If  Mr.  Jerningham  heard  the  tinkling  music  of 
an  irrepressible  giggle  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire 
he  did  not  show  it.  His  face  was  serious  as  he  found 
an  address  in  the  telephone-directory.  He  called 
up  the  Brown  Lecture  Bureau  and  made  an  appoint 
ment  to  see  Captain  Brown,  the  manager,  at  3  P.M. 
At  that  hour,  to  the  minute,  he  was  ushered  into 
the  private  offices  of  the  world-famous  manager  of 
the  lecture  bureau. 

4 'Captain  Brown?" 

"Yes,  sir.    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  lecturers  you  have 
available  at  the  moment,"  said  Jerningham. 

The  Klondiker  did  not  look  like  the  chairman  of  a 
church  entertainment  committee  or  like  a  village 
philanthropist.  So  Captain  Brown  asked: 

"Where  is  the--er—      Is  it  a  club?" 

"No.    It  is  myself.    Here  in  New  York." 

"Well,  we  provide  speakers  and  lecturers,  not 
exactly>aentertainers,  to— 

' '  I  know  all  that.  I  wish  to  know  whom  you  could 
send  me  to  entertain  me.  Let  me  see!  Is  Com 
mander  Finsen,  the  explorer,  here  now?" 

"Yes." 

"And  his  terms?" 

"It  depends  upon  where  it  is." 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Evidently  Jerningham  did  not  think  Captain 
Brown  realized  what  was  wanted,  for  he  said,  ear 
nestly  : 

"Captain  Brown,  get  this  clearly  fixed  in  your 
mind,  if  you  please:  I  am  anxious  to  hear  some  of 
your  lecturers  by  myself  alone,  in  my  own  apart 
ments.  I  wish  men  who  have  done  things — men  who 
are,  above  all  things,  brave  and  resourceful.  I  don't 
want  decadent  poets,  but  explorers,  gentlemen  ad 
venturers,  humanists,  or  scientists,  who  have  a 
knack  of  imparting  their  knowledge  in  such  a  way 
as  to  interest  men  who  are  neither  old  nor  scientific. 
I  am  perfectly  willing  to  pay  your  usual  rate.  What's 
the  odds  if  one  of  your  clients  spends  an  evening 
with  me  or  whether  he  spends  it  in  Norwalk,  Con 
necticut,  or  Boundbrook,  New  Jersey?  Do  you  get 
me?" 

"Oh,  perfectly.    I  might  suggest — " 

Here  the  genial  manager  ceased  speaking  to  "smile, 
grateful  that  so  unusual  a  man  as  Jerningham 
should  condescend  to  listen.  It  was  a  habit — this 
thankful  smiling — that  came  from  having  dealt 
with  geniuses  for  thirty  years.  Then  Captain  Brown 
permitted  himself  to  suggest  a  dozen  or  more  men 
who  had  very  interesting  stories  to  tell.  Jerningham 
asked  him  to  make  a  memorandum  of  the  men  and 
their  specialties,  and  agreed  to  call  on  Captain  Brown 
when  he  needed  entertainment.  After  Captain 
Brown  had  given  him  the  names  and  prices,  Jerning 
ham  gave  his  own  name  and  address. 

Captain  Brown  looked  grieved.  He  read  the  news 
papers.  He  might  have  asked  double  the  fees  from 
the  Alaskan  Monte  Cristo ! 

On  the  next  day,  when  Mr.  Francis  Wolfe  showed 

156 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

up  with  never  a  trace  of  anything  but  good  health 
on  his  pleasing  face,  Jerningham  invited  him  to 
spend  the  next  evening  in  the 'apartments  and  hear 
Finsen  tell  how  he  had  discovered  the  tribe  of 
Antarctic  giants,  the  shortest  of  whom  was  seven 
feet  three  inches;  and  how  he  had  captured  alive 
thirty- three  white  bears.  He  asked  Frank  to  invite 
five  friends  who  might  be  interested,  first,  in  dining 
with  Jerningham  and  Commander  Finsen,  and  then 
in  hearing  Finsen  spin  his  yarn. 

Frank  gladly  undertook  to  find  the  audience. 

So  they  had  a  very  nice  little  dinner,  with  just 
enough  to  drink  and  no  killjoys  in  activity.  And  later, 
in  Jerningham's  little  sitting-room  at  the  hotel,  they 
heard  the  great  Dane,  who  was  a  prosaic  viking 
with  iron  muscles  and  pale-blue  eyes  that  made  you 
uncomfortable  for  reasons  unknown,  tell  them  all 
about  his  remarkable  voyage  of  discovery  and  his 
hunts — no  end  of  things  that  he  could  tell  them,  but 
could  not  tell  a  mixed  audience:  perfectly  amazing 
details,  of  which  Frank  and  his  friends  talked,  for 
weeks. 

Then  there  was  a  little  midnight  supper,  at  which 
they  all  told  stories  that  left  no  unpleasant  after 
effects. 

One  day  after  luncheon  Jerningham,  who  had  been 
in  a  particularly  jovial  mood,  suddenly  became  very 
serious.  He  aimed  at  Frank  one  of  those  searching 
looks  that  seemed  to  go  to  the  young  man's  soul. 
Then  he  said: 

"My  boy,  I'd  like  to  say  something  to  you." 

"Say  it." 

"I  shall  probably  hurt  your  feelings,  so  you  must 
be  prepared  to  keep  your  temper  well  in  hand." 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"You  ought  to  know  me  better  than  that  by  now, 
Jerningham,"  retorted  Frank.  He  had  grown  not 
only  to  like,  but  even  to  admire,  this  strange  miner. 

"Wolfe,"  said  Jerningham,  slowly,  "you  are  one 
of  those  unfortunate  chaps  who  are  cruelly  handi 
capped  by  perennial  youth.  It  is  doubtless  a  pleas 
ing  thing  to  feel  at  fifty  as  you  did  at  twenty. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  bad  business.  It  is  all  very  nice 
to  shun  responsibility,  but  it  makes  you  careless; 
and  you  can't  expect  to  saddle  consequences  on  your 
guardian  after  you  are  twenty-one.  A  boy  of  forty 
can't  be  trusted  to  take  care  of  his  own  property." 

"I  can  take  care  of  mine,"  laughed  Frank,  "with 
out  any  trouble."  His  property  was  about  minus 
thirty  thousand. 

"Your  property  now — yes.  But  suppose  you  had 
a  million  or  two  left  you — or  even  more?  Do  you 
know  what  would  happen  to  those  millions,  and  do 
you  know  what  would  happen  to  you?" 

"I  know— but  I  won't  tell." 

"Will  you  let  me  tell  you?"  asked  Jerningham,  so 
earnestly  that  Frank  almost  stopped  smiling. 

"I'll  hear  you  to  the  bitter  end." 

"The  millions  would  go  from  your  pocket  into  the 
pockets  of — well,  you  know  whose  pockets!  And 
your  life  would  go  into  the  Big  Beyond  by  the  W.  W. 
route." 

"I  bite.     What's  W.  W.?" 

"Wine  and  woman.  You  would  last  perhaps  five 
years.  You  would  die  a  dipsomaniac  at  thirty  or 
thereabout.  The  chief  folly  of  fighting  booze  when 
you  are  rich  is  that  it  renders  wealth  utterly  futile." 

"How?" 

"Well,  you  can  get  just  as  drunk  on  ten  dollars  a 

158 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

day  as  you  can  on  one  thousand  dollars — with  this 
difference,  that  in  the  one  case  you  would  have  to 
get  drunk  on  whisky  by  yourself  and  in  the  other 
you  might  get  drunk  on  vintage  champagne  in  the 
company  of  paid  parasites.  The  morning  after  is 
the  same  in  both  cases:  you  don't  remember  any 
more  of  the  ten-dollar  jag  than  of  the  thousand-dollar 
orgy!  When  a  drunkard  sets  out  to  squander  a 
million  all  he  really  does  is  to  carry  a  sign  on  his 
back  with  letters  a  mile  high — the  sign  reading, 'I  am 
ad dfool!'" 

Frank  took  it  good-naturedly  because  he  liked 
Jerningham  and  because  he  was  not  a  millionaire. 
It  really  would  be  asinine  to  be  a  millionaire  and  try 
to  drink  all  there  was ;  so  he  said,  amiably : 

"Having  downed  the  Demon  Rum,  then  what?" 

"I'll  put  it  up  to  you  this  way:  I  have  no  family 
and  I  may  never  marry.  I  certainly  won't  if  I  don't 
find  my  first  and  only  sweetheart.  Suppose  I  felt 
like  leaving  you  some  of  my  money?  You  are  a  nice 
boy,  but  you  also  have  been  a  D.  F.,  and  you 
must  admit  that  no  man  likes  to  see  his  friend  trying 
to  beat  all  D.  F.  records.  Don't  get  mad  and  don't 
look  indignant!  I  want  to  make  a  proposition  to 
you:  I'll  agree  to  deposit  to  your  account  in  a  trust 
company  one  hundred  dollars  a  day  for  every  day  you 
don't  touch  a  drop !  I  don't  want  to  reform  you.  I 
merely  want  to  train  you — in  case!  There  will  be 
some  times  when  you  will  forfeit  that.  It  will 
amount  to  paying  one  hundred  dollars  for  a  Martini. 
It  will  become  a  luxury." 

"Too  expensive  for  me!"  said  Frank,  seriously. 

"And,  my  boy,  it  is  more  than  being  on  the  water- 
wagon — it's  being  able  to  stay  on!  Booze  is  so 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

foolish !  I  want  to  give  you  some  business  matters — 
for  you  to  handle  for  me." 

"You  know  what  I  know  about  business — " 

"Can't  you  do  as  you  are  told?  Don't  you  know 
enough  to  look  clever  and  say,  'Sign  here!'  in  a 
frozen  voice?" 

"Oh  yes.     But- 

"I  know  you  will  miss  your  evenings  at  first. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do.  I  am  no  killjoy.  Well, 
you  spend  as  many  evenings  as  you  wish  with  me. 
Invite  as  many  friends  as  you  please — sex  no  bar. 
Will  you?" 

"  Jerningham,  you  are  a  nice  chap.  I'll  do  it.  But 
you  must  not  think  of  that  one  hundred  dollars — " 

"Tut-tut!  Can't  you  understand  that  I  want  to 
do  it — that  I  love  to  see  your  bank  account  grow? 
Run  along  now.  I  want  to  read  Lucretius." 

From  that  day  Francis  Wolfe  became  Jerning- 
ham's  inseparable  companion.  Every  night  they 
went  to  the  theater  together  or  else  they  spent  the 
evening  in  Jerningham's  rooms,  listening  to  celebri 
ties.  Their  evenings  soon  became  famous.  Indeed, 
people  began  to  talk  about  Frank  Wolfe's  reform. 
Even  his  fairest  and  frailest  friends,  knowing  that 
Frank  forfeited  one  hundred  dollars  a  day  by  falling 
off  the  water-wagon,  kept  him  firmly  on  the  seat — 
and  borrowed  the  hundred.  In  due  time  the  miracle 
reached  the  ears  of  Frank's  sisters  and  of  his  aunt, 
Mrs.  Stimson.  They  had  a  talk  with  Frank.  They 
were  first  amazed,  then  delighted,  when  they  saw 
Frank  and  when  they  heard  about  Jerningham's  in 
tention  of  making  him  his  heir. 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  out  of  gratitude  for  the 
man  who  was  making  a  man  of  their  brother,  Mrs. 

1 60 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

John  Burt  and  Mrs.  Sydney  Walsingham  accepted 
Mr.  Jerningham's  invitation  and  attended  one  of  the 
lectures  at  the  Klondiker's  apartments.  The  little 
supper  that  followed  was  a  great  success.  Mr. 
Jerningham  talked  little,  but  extremely  well — ^as 
when  he  said  to  Mrs.  Jack  in  a  low  voice  that  he 
loved  Frank  Wolfe  and  some  day  everybody  would  be 
sure  of  it ! 

"I  am  merely  training  him.  But  don't  think  I 
am  asking  the  impossible.  I  wish  him  to  know 
enough  to  hold  on  to  what  I'll  leave  him." 

Of  course  after  that  Mr.  Jerningham  was  not  only 
in  society,  but  even  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  a  fad. 
Gerald  Lanier,  the  short -story  writer,  said  that 
Jerningham  was  society's  gold  cure  and  had  climbed 
into  the  inner  circles  on  a  ladder  made  of  tightly 
corked  wine-bottles;  in  fact,  he  wrote  what  his  non- 
literary  friends  called  a  skit — and  Frank's  friends  a 
knock — entitled:  "How  to  Capitalize  Intemperance." 
But  that  did  not  hinder  Jerningham  from  receiving 
invitations  from  families  with  thirsty  younger  sons. 

VI 

One  morning  Jerningham,  who  had  seemed  pre 
occupied,  said  to  Frank: 

"I  wonder  if  I  can  ask  you — "  He  paused  and 
looked  doubtfully  at  Frank. 

"What?" 

"A  favor." 

"Of  course.  Why,  you  can  even  touch  me  if  you 
want  to." 

"I  wonder  if  your — if  Mrs.  Burt  would  invite 
Mrs.  Ashton  Welles  to  dinner?" 

161 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"I  guess  so.     I'll  ask  her." 

11  That  way  you  could  meet  Mrs.  Welles,  and — " 

"You  mean,"  said  Frank,  trying  to  look  like 
Sherlock  Holmes,  ''I  could  ask  her  about  your — 
about  her  sister?" 

Jerningham  jumped  to  his  feet  in  consterna 
tion. 

"Great  Scott,  no!     No!"  he  shouted. 

"Why,  I  thought—" 

"You  can't  ask  her  that  until  you  know  her  so 
well  that  you  can  take  a  friend's  liberty.  Promise 
me  you  won't  ask  her  until  I  myself  tell  you  that 
you  may!  Promise!" 

There  was  in  his  eyes  a  look  of  such  intensity  that 
young  Wolfe  was  startled. 

"Of  course  I'll  promise." 

"You  must  make  friends  with  her  first.  She  must 
learn  to  like  you — 

Francis  Wolfe  smiled  a  trifle  fatuously.  It  was 
merely  boyish.  A  little  more,  however,  would  have 
made  the  smile  ungentlemanly.  Jerningham  con 
tinued,  very  earnestly: 

"Listen,  lad.  She  will  have  to  do  more  than 
merely  like  you — she  will  have  to  trust  you.  And 
the  only  way  to  make  a  young  and  pretty  woman 
trust  a  young  and  not  unattractive  man  is  by  having 
that  man  never,  never,  never  fail  in  respect  of  her. 
He  may  be  in  love  with  her,  or  he  may  only  pretend 
to  be  in  love  with  her;  but  he  must  act  as  if  he  re 
garded  her  with  such  awe  that  he  dare  not  make 
direct  love  to  her.  Do  you  get  it?" 

"Yes.     But— 

"There  is  no  but.  She  must  first  like  you,  which 
is  not  difficult;  and  then  she  must  trust  you  as  a 

162 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

true  friend,  which  is,  to  say  the  least,  a  slower  mat 
ter.  Be  a  brother  to  her.  Do  you  think  you  like 
me  well  enough  to  do  this  for  me  now?" 

Jerningham  looked  at  young  Wolfe  steadily — a 
man's  look. 

Frank  said:  "I'll  do  it  gladly.    And  my  sisters— 

"They  must  never  know  about — about  Naida!" 
interrupted  Jerningham,  hastily. 

"Of  course  not.  But  they  will  do  anything  for 
me — and  for  you,  too!" 

That  is  the  true  story  of  how  it  came  about  that 
Mrs.  Ashton  Welles  was  taken  up  by  the  Jack 
Burts;  and  how  she  met  Francis  Wolfe;  and  how 
Mrs.  Stimson  invited  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ashton  Welles 
to  one  of  her  old-fashioned  and  tiresome  but  famous 
and  very  formal  dinners ;  and  how  Frank  again  took 
in  Mrs.  Welles.  Thereafter  they  met  often.  At 
some  of  these  dinners  they  met  Jerningham. 

The  Klondiker  paid  his  court  to  Mr.  Welles. 
Indeed,  he  seemed  to  have  for  the  president  of  the 
VanTwiller  Trust  Company  an  admiration  that 
closely  resembled  the  worship  of  a  matinee  girl  for 
an  actress  like  Maude  Adams.  It  was  an  innocent 
sort  of  worship,  but,  nevertheless,  not  displeasing. 
In  men  it  sometimes  makes  the  worshiped  feel  pater 
nally  toward  the  worshiper. 

Jerningham  developed  a  habit  of  going  every  day 
to  the  trust  company ;  and  he  made  it  a  point  always 
to  see  Ashton  Welles,  if  only  to  shake  hands.  One 
morning  he  told  Mr.  Welles  he  desired  advice  about 
an  investment.  Jerningham,  it  must  be  remembered, 
had  on  deposit  with  the  trust  company  over  a  million 
dollars,  and  there  were  six  or  seven  millions  in  gold- 
dust  in  the  company's  vault. 

163 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Mr.  Welles,  I— I,"  said  the  Klondiker,  so  ear 
nestly  that  he  stammered — "I  should  like  to  buy 
some  VanTwiller  Trust  Company  stock,  to  have 
and  to  hold  as  long  as  you  are  president." 

There  was  in  Jerningham's  eyes  a  look  of  that 
admiration  that  best  expresses  itself  in  absolute  con 
fidence  in  the  infallibility  of  a  very  great  man. 
Welles  was  a  very  cold  man;  but  flattery  has  rays 
that  will  thaw  icebergs. 

Welles  nearly  blushed  and  smiled  one  of  his 
politely  deprecating  smiles — as  if  he  were  apologizing 
for  smiling — and  said : 

"Why,  Mr.  Jerningham,  I'll  confess  to  you  that 
I  myself  think  well  of  that  stock.  I  guess  we'll  keep 
on  paying  dividends." 

Jerningham  smiled  delightedly — the  king  had 
jested!  Then  he  said: 

"I'll  buy  as  much  as  I  can,  but  I  don't  want  to 
put  up  the  price  on  myself.  Who  can  give  me 
pointers  on  how  to  pick  up  the  stock  quietly? 
Do  you  think  I  should  see  Mr.  Barrows  or  Mr. 
Stewardson?" 

He  looked  so  anxiously  at  Mr.  Welles  that  Mr. 
Welles  said,  kindly: 

"Oh,  see  Stewardson.  I'll  speak  to  him,  if  you 
wish." 

"Thank  you!  Thank  you,  Mr.  Welles,"  said  Jer 
ningham,  so  gratefully  that  Welles  felt  like  a  philan 
thropist  as  he  rang  the  bell  to  summon  the  second 
vice-president. 

"Mr.  Stewardson,  Mr.  Jerningham  wants  to  buy 
some  of  our  stock.  I  want  you  to  help  him  in  any 
way  possible." 

"Delighted,  I'm  sure!"  said  the  vice-president, 

164 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

very  cordially.  He  was  paid  to  be  cordial  to  cus 
tomers. 

"If  I  had  my  way  I'd  be  the  largest  individual 
stockholder,"  said  Jerningham,  looking  at  Welles 
almost  adoringly. 

"I  hope  you  will,"  said  Welles,  pleasantly.  "Mr. 
Stewardson  will  help  you." 

Jerningham  and  Welles  shook  hands.  Then  Jer 
ningham  and  Stewardson  left  to  go  to  the  vice- 
president's  private  office. 


VII 

The  remarkable  Miss  Keogh  was  one  of  those 
remarkable  people  who  are  really  remarkable.  Within 
three  weeks  came  a  cablegram  from  her  to  Mr. 
Jerningham  to  the  effect  that  a  letter  had  been  sent 
by  Mrs.  Deering  to  her  daughter — the  first.  Mrs. 
Deering  had  begun  to  doubt  her  own  health.  Then 
came  cablegrams  from  her  to  Mrs.  Welles;  and  in  a 
few  days,  before  Ashton  Welles  could  think  of  a 
valid  excuse  for  not  letting  his  wife  go  to  England, 
Mrs.  Welles  told  him  to  engage  passage  for  her  on 
the  Ruritania. 

It  was  very  unfortunate  that  he  could  not  accom 
pany  her;  but  the  annual  meeting  was  only  three 
weeks  away,  and  the  minority,  never  strong  enough 
to  do  real  damage,  always  was  devilish  enough  to 
be  very  disagreeable  to  the  clique  in  control.  Ashton 
Welles,  after  the  extremely  stupid  fashion  of  all 
strong  men,  had  always  kept  the  absolute  control 
of  the  company's  affairs  in  his  own  hands.  It  was 
the  one  thing  he  refused  to  share  with  his  subordi 
nates.  He  was  a  czar  in  his  office.  He  was,  in 

165 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

reality,  the  trust  company — or  he  so  believed  and  so 
he  made  others  believe.  His  vice-presidents  were 
merely  highly  paid  office-boys,  according  to  the  gos 
sip  of  the  Street,  which  was  not  so  far  out  of  the  way 
in  this  particular  instance. 

Ten  minutes  after  Mrs.  Ashton  Welles  engaged 
Suite  D  on  the  Ruritania,  due  to  sail  on  the  following 
day,  Jerningham  said  to  Mr.  Francis  Wolfe: 

"My  boy,  I  should  like  you  to  go  to  London  on 
business  for  me — and  for  yourself.  You've  got  to 
represent  me  in  a  deal  with  the  Arctic  Venture  Cor 
poration.  You  will  have  my  power  of  attorney  and 
you  will  sign  the  deed  for  one  of  my  properties,  as 
soon  as  they  have  deposited  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  pounds  to  my  credit  in  Parr's  Bank. 
And  also  you  will  call  on  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
world — the  prettiest,  do  you  hear? — who  unfor 
tunately  is  also  the  brightest  and  cleverest.  Her 
name—  He  paused  and  looked  at  Francis  Wolfe 
meditatively,  almost  hesitatingly. 

"Go  on!"  implored  Francis  Wolfe. 

1 '  Her  name  is  Kathryn  Keogh  and  she  is  stopping 
at  Thornton's  Hotel.  She  will  help  you  find  Naida. 
Miss  Keogh  is  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Deering." 

"She  is  Irish— eh?"  asked  Frank. 

"Mrs.  Deering?" 

"No;   the  peach— the— Miss  Keogh?" 

"She  is  of  the  Waterford  Keoghs,  famous  for  their 
eyes  and  their  complexions.  But  business  first. 
You  are  not  to  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Keogh  until 
after  my  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds  are 
safe  in  bank.  I'd  go  myself,  but  I  have  a  still  bigger 
deal  on  here  in  New  York.  I've  taken  the  liberty 
to  engage  a  stateroom  on  the  Ruritania,  sailing  to- 

166 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

morrow,  and  a  letter  of  credit  has  been  ordered  for 
five  thousand  dollars.  Have  I  taken  too  much  for 
granted?'1 

"No;  but  you  know  perfectly  well  that  I  don't 
know  a  thing  about  business,  and  I'd  be  afraid— 

"My  solicitors  in  London  will  call  on  you  when 
they  are  ready  for  you.  I  shall  give  you  a  memo 
randum  for  your  own  conduct;  you  will  find  there 
instructions  in  detail — just  as  though  you  were  a 
ten  year-old  boy;  but  that  is  really  for  your  own 
protection,  and  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  your 
mind  is  ten  years  old — " 

"No  feelings  hurt,"  said  Frank,  who  in  reality 
was  much  relieved  to  learn  that  the  chances 
of  his  making  a  mistake  had  been  intelligently 
minimized. 

"I'm  glad  you  take  it  that  way.  Now  we'll  go 
down-town  to  Towne,  Ripley  &  Co.  and  give  them 
your  signature  for  the  letter  of  credit;  from  there 
we'll  go  to  the  British  Consulate  and  have  my  own 
signature  on  my  power  of  attorney  certified  to  by 
the  consul,  and  then  you  can  skip  up-town  and  say 
good-by  to  your  friends." 

Frank  left  Jerningham  at  the  consulate  and  went 
home  to  pack  up  and  arrange  for  his  more  pressing 
adieus.  Jerningham  went  into  a  public  telephone- 
booth  and  called  up  the  offices  of  Society  Folk. 
When  they  answered  he  asked  to  speak  with  the 
editor. 

"Well?"  presently  came  in  a  sharp  voice. 

"This  is  Mr.— er— a  friend." 

"Anonymous!    All  right.     What  do  you  want?" 

[<To  give  you  a  piece  of  news." 

"We  verify  everything  and  take  your  word  for 
167 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

absolutely  nothing.  I  tell  you  this  to  save  your 
telling  me  a  lie." 

''That's  all  right.  You'll  find  it  true  enough. 
I—" 

"One  minute.  Where  is  that  pencil?  All  right! 
Now  the  name  of  the  woman?" 

"How  do  you  know  I  want  to — " 

"All  you  fellows  always  do.     What's  her  name?" 

"Mrs.  Ashton  Welles." 

"The  wife  of  the  president  of  the  VanTwiller  —  " 

"Correct!"  said  Jerningham. 

"Now  the  name  of  the  man?" 

"Francis  Wolfe,"  answered  Jerningham,  unhesi 
tatingly. 

"The  chorus-girls'  pet?"  asked  the  voice. 

"The  same!" 

"Has  it  happened  yet?  Or  do  you  merely  fear 
it?  Or  is  it  a  case  of  hoping?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  driving  at." 

"Then  you  don't  read  Society  Folk." 

"Well,  I  don't— regularly.  All  I  know  is  that 
Frank  has  been  very  assiduous  in  his  attentions  lately. 
He's  shaken  the  Great  White  Way  and  hasn't  been 
in  a  lobster -palace  in  two  months.  He  and  Mrs. 
Ashton  Welles  are  sailing  on  the  Ruritania  to 
morrow." 

"Under  what  name?" 

"Their  own." 

"Thank  you,  kind  friend.     Thank  you!"     , 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  we  can  now  use  names.  Does  Mr. 
Welles  also  go?" 

"Of  course  not!" 

"Excuse  me  for  asking  such  a  silly  question. 

168 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

What  other  crime  has  he  committed  besides  being 
old?— I  mean  Mr.  Welles." 

" Stupidity  is  worse  than  criminal." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!" 

"When  does  your  paper  come  out?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow.  Much  obliged.  You  are 
a  friend  in  need.  Don't  ring  off  yet.  Listen !  You 
are  also  a  dirty,  low-lived,  sneaking,  cowardly  dog, 
and  a  general,  all-round,  unrelieved,  monumental- 
It  was  the  one  way  the  editor  had  of  showing  that 
he  was  better  than  his  anonymous  contributor. 

Jerningham,  of  course,  went  on  board  the  Ruri- 
tania  to  see  Frank  off.  Ashton  Welles  was  also  there 
to  say  good-by  to  his  young  and  beautiful  wife. 
It  was  their  first  separation,  and  Welles  did  not  like 
it.  He  seemed  to  feel  her  absence  in  advance;  it 
was  really  that,  as  the  hour  drew  near,  he  realized 
more  vividly  how  lonely  she  would  leave  him !  They 
have  a  saying  in  Spain  that  a  man  may  grow  accus 
tomed  to  bearing  sorrow,  but  that  nobody  can  get 
used  to  that  happiness  which  comes  merely  to  dis 
appear  immediately  after.  A  cigar  manufacturer 
from  Havana  had  once  quoted  this  to  Ashton  Welles, 
and  Ashton  Welles  was  impressed  less  by  the  saying 
than  by  the  fact  that  the  Spaniard  was  so  serious 
about  it.  But  now  he  remembered  it. 

He  was  very  uncomfortable  and  this  discomfort 
made  his  mental  machinery  act  queerly ;  it  seemed  to 
tint  his  thoughts  with  strange,  unusual  hues  that 
made  them  almost  morbid.  He  would  have  felt 
contempt  for  his  own  weakness  had  he  not  been 
so  full  of  half-angry  regret  at  being  left  alone  in 
New  York — this  man  who  never  had  possessed  an 
intimate  friend;  who  not  even  as  a  boy  had  a  chum! 
12  169 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Of  course  it  was  only  a  coincidence  that  young 
Mr.  Francis  Wolfe  was  to  be  young  Mrs.  Ashton 
Welles's  fellow-passenger;  and  it  was  also  a  coin 
cidence  that  Mr.  Wolfe's  stateroom  was  just  across 
the  passageway  from  Mrs.  Welles's  suite.  Indeed, 
neither  of  the  young  people  had  picked  out  the 
cabins — but  there  they  were.  And  there,  in  Ashton 
Welles's  mind,  was  another  unformulated  unpleas 
antness. 

Frank's  sisters  were  so  proud  Frank  was  going  to 
put  through  an  important  business  deal  that  they 
showed  it.  But  if  they  were  glad  that  Mrs.  Welles 
was  also  going  they  did  not  show  it.  They  recalled 
Frank's  desire  to  meet  the  pretty  young  matron 
whose  husband  was  thirty  years  older,  and  they  were 
rather  ostentatiously  polite  to  her.  Ashton  Welles, 
in  his  disturbed  state  of  mind,  somehow  felt  that  the 
attitude  of  Mrs.  John  Burt  and  Mrs.  Sydney  Wal- 
singham  was  one  of  blame-fixing;  but  he  could  not 
definitely  understand  why  there  should  be  any  blame 
to  fix!  He  dismissed  his  semi-suspicions  with  the 
thought  that  women  had  petty  minds.  His  wife 
was  very  pretty  and  Wolfe's  sisters  were  not  as  young 
as  they  used  to  be.  And  youth  is  a  terrible  thing — 
to  lose!  It  is  hard  to  forgive  youth  for  being,  after 
one  is  past — well,  say,  past  a  certain  age.  And  to 
prove  that  he  himself  had  nothing  to  fear — absolutely 
nothing — he  even  smiled  and  said  to  young  Mr. 
Wolfe: 

"I  feel  certain,  of  course,  that  if  Mrs.  Welles 
should  need  anything — " 

It  was  the  season  of  the  year  when  east-bound 
liners  carried  few  passengers.  The  young  people 
were  bound  to  be  thrown  together  a  great  deal. 

170 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Welles.  Only  too  delighted,  I'm 
sure!"  said  Frank,  very  eagerly. 

He  was  a  fine-looking  chap,  with  that  wonderfully 
clean,  healthy  pink  complexion  which  suggests  a  clean 
and  healthy  mind.  His  eyes  were  full  of  that  eager, 
boyish  light  that  makes  the  possessors  thereof  so 
nice  to  pet,  small-child  wise. 

Ashton  Welles  received  an  impression  of  Frank 
Wolfe's  face  that  was  photographic  in  its  details. 

The  floating  hotel  moved  off  slowly.  Ashton 
Welles,  on  the  pier,  watched  the  fluttering  handker 
chief  of  his  wife  out  of  sight.  He  had  the  remem 
brance  of  her  beautiful  young  face  framed  in  Siberian 
sable  to  cheer  him.  She  certainly  looked  heavenly. 
She  had  cried  at  leaving  him.  She  had  waved  away 
at  him  vehemently,  and  there  was  the  unpleasant 
suggestion  that  always  attends  such  leave-takings— 
that  the  parting  was  forever.  A  frail  thing — human 
life!  A  little  speck  of  vitality  on  the  boundless 
waste  of  grim,  gray  waters!  And  she  seemed  so 
sorry  to  go  away  from  him!  And  she  waved  and 
waved,  as  if  she,  also,  feared  she  might  never  see 
him  again!  And  Francis  Wolfe  stood  beside  her, 
very  close  to  her,  and  waved  also — to  Jerningham, 
who  stood  beside  Ashton  Welles. 

Ashton  Welles  accepted  Jerningham 's  invitation 
and  rode  to  his  office  in  the  Klondiker's  sumptuous 
motor  in  the  Klondiker's  company.  Ashton  Welles 
looked  at  the  flower-holder.  Instead  of  the  white 
azaleas  he  saw  two  white  handkerchiefs  waved  by 
two  young  people. 

"You  are  very  friendly  with  young  Wolfe?"  said 
Ashton  Welles,  carelessly  inquisitive — merely  to 
make  talk,  you  know.  All  rich  old  men  who  marry 

171 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

young  women  have  ostrich  habits.  They  put  an  end 
to  danger  by  closing  their  eyes  to  the  obvious. 
That  is  why  they  always  discover  nothing. 

"Rather — yes.  I  think  he  is  a  fine  chap — one  of 
those  clean-cut  Americans  of  the  present  generation 
that  European  women  find  so  perfectly  fascinating." 

Ashton  Welles  instantly  frowned — and  instantly 
ceased  to  frown. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  grimaced,  thinking  it  looked 
like  a  smile.  "What  business  is  taking  him  to 
London?  I  thought  he  was  a  young  man  of — er— 
elegant  leisure." 

"He  was  that  until  very  recently;  but  he  has 
turned  over  a  new  leaf.  He  has  forsworn  his  old 
and,  I  suppose,  rather  disreputable  companions.  I 
find  him  rather  serious." 

"What  has  changed  him?"  Ashton  Welles  was 
foolish  enough  to  be  brave  enough  to  ask.  When  a 
question  can  have  two  answers — one  of  them  dis 
agreeable — it  is  folly  to  ask  it. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Jerningham,  as  if 
puzzled.  "He  has  acted  a  little  queer ly  and  se 
er  etive-like ;  but  it  is,  I  admit,  a  queerness  that  other 
young  men  would  do  well  to  imitate,  for  it  has  made 
him  cease  drinking,  and  cease — er — you  know.  I 
rather  suspect  it  is  his  sister,  Mrs.  Burt.  He  is  very 
fond  of  her.  A  man  will  do  things  for  a  good  woman 
that  he  won't  for  his  best  man  friend,  or  for  his  own 
sake.  You  saw  him.  There  is  no  viciousness  or 
dissipation  in  that  face.  Damned  handsome  chap, 
I  call  him!" 

"H'm!"  winced  the  glacial  Ashton  Welles.  He 
could  not  help  it. 

There  came  upon  him  a  strange  mood,  almost  of 

172 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

numbness,  that  made  him  silent  against  his  will. 
He  answered  by  nods — the  nods  of  a  man  who  does 
not  hear — to  Jerningham's  chatter.  He  gathered 
in  some  way  that  the  Alaskan  Monte  Cristo  was 
talking  of  buying  VanT wilier  Trust  Company  stock, 
and  that  he  would  ask  Stewardson  how  much  he 
could  borrow  on  the  stock. 

"Yes — do!"  said  Ashton  Welles  as  the  motor 
stopped  in  front  of  the  imposing  entrance  of  the 
trust  company's  marble  building. 

They  stepped  out;  Welles  excused  himself  almost 
brusquely  and  went  into  his  own  private  office  to 
think  all  the  thoughts  that  a  millionaire  of  fifty-two 
thinks  when  he  thinks  that  he  married  at  fifty  a  girl 
thirty  years  his  junior,  with  cheeks  like  flower  petals 
and  eyes  like  skies,  who  is  going  to  spend  the  best 
part  of  a  week  on  a  steamer  in  the  company  of  a 
man  who  is  much  worse  than  handsome — young ! 

Mr.  Jerningham,  who  did  not  seem  to  have  no 
ticed  the  near  -  rudeness  of  Mr.  Ashton  Welles, 
promptly  sought  the  second  vice-president  and  asked 
how  much  the  company  would  lend  on  its  own  stock. 

"It  is  against  the  law  for  us  to  lend  money  on 
our  own  stock,"  said  the  vice-president,  who  did  not 
add  that  this  provision  had  prevented  many  an 
inside  clique  from  eating  its  pie  and  having  it  too. 

"Will  the  banks  loan  money  on  V.T.  stock?" 
asked  Jerningham.  He  had  already  bought  three 
thousand  shares  at  an  average  of  four  hundred 
dollars  a  share. 

"Well,  I  guess  so." 

"On  a  time  loan?" 

"No  trouble  in  borrowing  three  hundred  dollars 
a  share,  I  should  say." 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"That  is  not  much,"  objected  Jerningham. 

"No,  it  isn't.  But —  May  I  ask  you  a  ques 
tion?" 

"Two  if  you  wish,"  said  Jerningham,  with  one 
of  his  likable  smiles. 

"Why  should  you  need  to  borrow  a  trifle,  with  all 
the  millions  in  gold  you  have  down-stairs?  Or  are 
they  only  gold  bricks  you've  got  in  your  boxes?" 

This  was,  of  course,  meant  in  jest;  but  Stewardson 
thought  in  a  flash  the  trust  company  did  not  know 
for  a  positive  fact  that  Jerningham 's  iron-bound  and 
wax-sealed  boxes  had  real  gold-dust  in  them. 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,  Mr.  Stewardson," 
said  Jerningham,  with  that  curious  earnestness 
people  assume  when  they  discuss  matters  they  do 
not  really  understand  —  "let  me  tell  you  this:  The 
time  is  coming — and  coming  within  a  few  months  !— 
when  good,  hard  gold  is  going  to  command  a  premium 
just  as  it  practically  did  during  the  Bryan  free- 
silver  scare  in  1896.  I  am  going  to  save  mine.  I 
want  to  have  it  in  readiness  to  take  advantage  of — " 

"But  present  conditions  are  utterly  different— 

"They  are  always  different — and  yet  the  panics 
come!  You  thought  that  after  1896  there  would  never 
again  be  any  need  for  clearing-house  certificates; 
and  *  yet,  in  1907— 

"They  were  unnecessary — "  began  Stewardson, 
hotly. 

He  had  been  left  out  of  all  conferences  among  the 
powers  at  that  trying  time,  and  naturally  disap 
proved  their  actions. 

"But  they  happened,  just  the  same!  I  know  my 
self.  If  I  cash  in  now  I'll  buy  something  with  the 
money.  I  don't  want  to  buy  now.  No,  sir!  If  I 

174 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

should  happen  to  need  a  million  or  two  I  prefer  to 
borrow  it  for  a  few  weeks  until  my  next  shipment 
comes  in.  There  will  be  two  millions  coming  in 
about  the  middle  of  next  month.  I've  sent  word 
to  get  out  as  big  an  output  as  possible.  See?  You 
bet  your  boots  Wall  Street  is  not  going  to  get  either 
my  cash  or  my  mines,  as  they  did  Colonel  Cannon's. 
You  know  he  was  'the  Mexican  copper  king'  one 
day  and  'that  jackass  from  Chihuahua'  the  next! 
See?" 

The  vice-president  looked  at  him  and  said  "I 
see!"  in  a  very  flattering  tone  of  voice;  but  in  his 
inmost  mind  he  was  thinking  that  such  a  thing  was 
precisely  what  doubtless  would  happen  to  Mr. 
Alfred  Jerningham,  late  of  Nome.  It  is  always 
the  extremely  suspicious,  too-smart-f or-you-by-heck ! 
farmer  who  buys  the  biggest  gold  brick. 

"They'll  find  out  I'll  never  let  them  change 
my  name  into  'that  blankety-blank-blank  from 
Alaska!"1  And  Jerningham  put  on  that  look  of 
devilish  astuteness  that  buyers  of  stocks  always  put 
on  when  they  buy  at  top  prices. 

He  left  the  vice-president  of  the  VanTwiller  Trust 
Company  and  called  on  the  vice-presidents  of  several 
other  trust  companies  and  banks,  and  found  out  that 
he  could  borrow,  more  than  three  hundred  dollars  a 
share  on  his  V.T.  stock.  And  he  did — then  and 
there.  He  impressed  the  genial  philanthropists  on 
whom  he  called  as  being  a  child  of  Nature — a  great 
big  boy  playing  at  being  a  financier.  There  was  in 
consequence  much  smacking  of  financial  lips.  It 
was  morsels  like  this  naive  and  honest  Alaskan 
miner  with  the  millions  that  helped  to  reconcile  men 
to  living  the  Wall  Street  life. 


THE    PLUNDERERS 


VIII 

On  the  day  after  the  Ruritania  sailed  Ashton 
Welles,  whose  first  wifeless  evening  at  home  had 
not  been  pleasant,  found  on  his  desk  a  marked  copy 
of  Society  Folk.  These  were  the  four  marked  para 
graphs: 

The  man  who  first  said  there  was  no  fool  like  an  old  fool  had 
in  mind  that  form  of  folly  which  consists  of  the  purchase  of  a 
beautiful  girl  by  a  man  who  endeavors  to  span  a  difference  of 
thirty  years  in  age  by  means  of  a  bridge  of  solid  gold.  It  is 
unnatural,  unwholesome,  and  even  immoral.  The  sordid  ro 
mances  of  high  life  that  begin  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  jewelry-shop 
are  apt  to  end  in  a  Reno  divorce-mill.  Why  shouldn't  they  ? 
A  girl  who  marries  once  for  money  is  always  ready  to  marry 
again  for  more  money — or  for  more  love — for  she  always  wants 
more  than  the  desiccated  ass  who  first  bought  her  can  give  her. 
A  girl  of  twenty  who  is  famous  for  her  good  looks  is  always  a 
beautiful  young  woman,  no  matter  what  else  she  may  be.  But 
a  man  close  to  sixty,  whether  he  is  the  head  of  a  big  trust  com 
pany  or  a  poet,  is  nothing  but  an  old  man.  Speaking  of  remark 
able  coincidences,  is  it  not  odd  that  both  Fool  and  Financier 
should  begin  with  an  F?  And  Frailty,  too,  whose  other  name 
is  Woman? 

If  there  are  some  things  that  gold  cannot  do  it  is  perfectly 
wonderful  how  many  things  love  can  do!  It  bridges  all  chasms 
with  kisses,  and  solves  all  riddles — with  glances.  It  even  defies 
the  high  cost  of  living  and  makes  men  think  themselves  demi 
gods.  It  has  been  known  to  make  champagne  drunkards  swear 
off  long  before  they  are  bankrupt.  It  even  now  depopulates  the 
lobster-palaces.  It  turns  dining-room  navigators  into  fearless 
vikings,  braving  the  wild  Atlantic  and  its  midwinter  gales  in 
order  to  be  by  their  lady-loves.  It  may  even  reform  Tammany 
leaders — for  we  know  it  can  transform  young  asses  into  hand 
some  Lancelots. 

Among  the  passengers  on  the  Ruritania,  sailing  for  Liverpool 
at  this  unfashionable  season  of  the  year,  were  Mrs.  Ashton 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

Welles,  who  has  the  gorgeous  Suite  D  all  to  herself,  and  young 
Mr.  Francis  Wolfe,  who  is  content  with  the  more  modest  state 
room  across  the  way.  Frank's  friends  are  always  singing  his 
praises  these  days.  He  never  looks  at  a  chorus-girl  save  from 
the  middle  of  the  house,  and  has  not  taken  anything  stronger 
than  Vichy  in  long  weeks.  If  we  were  not  averse  to  advertising 
male  beauty  shows  we  would  remark  that  young  Wolfe  is  the 
handsomest  bachelor  who  ever  sidestepped  matrimony. 

It  takes  more  than  money  to  keep  the  Wolfe  from  the  door — 
eh?  What? 

The  Ashton  Welles  who  finished  reading  the 
beastly  paragraphs  of  Society  Folk  was  not  the  same 
Ashton  Welles  who  began  them.  He  was  no  longer 
an  efficient  financier,  but  a  man  benumbed,  whose 
brain  had  turned  to  plaster  of  Paris.  His  mind  at 
once  lost  all  elasticity,  all  power  to  functionate. 
And,  since  he  could  not  think,  he  could  not  act. 
That  wonderful  world,  which  financially  successful 
people  create  for  themselves  with  so  much  pride, 
tumbled  about  his  ears.  Out  of  the  chaos  made  by 
a  few  printed  words,  only  one  thing  was  certain — 
he  suffered! 

Men  are  always  wounded  in  a  vital  spot  when 
they  are  wounded  by  jealousy,  and  Ashton  Welles 
was  particularly  vulnerable  because  he  lived  in  only 
two  places — his  office  and  his  home.  He  did  not 
have  other  houses  of  refuge  to  which  his  soul  could 
retreat — like  music  or  literature  or  art — in  case  of 
need.  He  had  been  so  busy  winning  success  that  he 
had  not  had  time  for  anything  else.  He  had  worked 
for  the  aggrandizement  of  the  personal  fortune  of 
Ashton  Welles.  When  circumstances  and  that  repu 
tation  for  luck,  shrewdness,  and  caution,  which  is  in 
itself  a  golden  sagacity,  finally  placed  him,  still  a 

177 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

young  man,  at  the  head  of  the  VanT wilier  Trust 
Company,  David  Soulett,  one  of  the  directors,  re 
marked:  ''Welles  has  married  the  company;  but 
we  don't  yet  know  whether  he  is  to  be  the  company's 
husband  or  whether  the  company  is  to  be  his  wife!" 
And  a  fellow-director,  who  had  been  in  profitable 
deals  with  Welles,  retorted,  "Well,  I  call  it  an  ideal 
match!" 

Welles  brought  to  the  company  what  it  needed 
and  the  presidency  brought  to  Welles  many  oppor 
tunities — none  of  which  he  neglected.  He  saw  the 
deposits  increase  tenfold — and  his  own  fortune 
twenty  fold.  What  might  not  have  been  politic  in 
an  individual  playing  a  lone  hand  was  altogether 
admirable  in  the  head  of  a  financial  institution — his 
cold-bloodedness,  for  example,  and  the  dehumanized 
attitude  toward  life  habitually  assumed  by  the 
principal  cog-wheel  in  that  intricate  aggregation  of 
cog-wheels  known  as  a  modern  trust  company.  Be 
ing  an  excellent  money-lender,  he  was  an  uninter 
esting  human  being.  You  lose  much  when  you  win 
money — for  gold  is  hard  and  cold,  and  the  enjoyment 
of  life  calls  for  softness  and  warmth.  It  is  the  ap 
palling  revenge  capital  takes  on  its  self -called  mas 
ters. 

As  he  approached  his  fiftieth  year  Welles  began  to 
find  that  his  isolation  might  be  splendid,  but  that  it 
was  also  damnably  uncomfortable.  Did  you  know 
that  in  certain  millionaire  households,  where  every 
thing  always  runs  very  smoothly,  the  master  gets  to 
long  for  a  burnt  steak  or  the  spilling  of  soup  by  the 
very  competent  servant  ?  Welles,  accustomed  to  the 
wonderfully  comfortable  life  of  a  very  rich  bachelor 
in  New  York,  desired  a  home  where  everything  need 

178 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

not  be  so  comfortable.  And  as  his  fortune  became  a 
matter  of  several  millions  it  began — as  swollen 
fortunes  always  do,  also  in  revenge! — to  take  on  the 
aspect  of  a  monument,  something  to  admire  during 
the  monument-builder's  lifetime  and  to  endure  im 
pressively  afterward!  With  the  desire  of  perma 
nence  came  the  dream  of  all  capitalists  that  makes 
them  dynasts  of  gold — an  heir  to  extend  the  bounda 
ries  of  the  family  fortune!  It  was  inevitable  that 
Ashton  Welles  should  grow  to  believe  that,  though 
the  trust  company's  deposits  were  in  other  people's 
names,  they  really  belonged  to  Ashton  Welles,  be 
cause  they  were  merely  the  marble  blocks  of  the 
Welles  monument.  The  name  of  Welles  must  never 
cease  to  be  identified  with  the  work  of  Ashton  the 
First! 

Wherefore  the  need  of  an  heir  became  almost  an 
obsession  with  him,  and  with  it  came  a  quite  human 
dissatisfaction  with  hotels  and  clubs,  and  trained 
nurses  in  times  of  illness.  When  a  capitalist  realizes 
clearly  that,  apart  from  his  money-lending  capacity, 
he  has  absolutely  no  power  to  bring  tears  to  human 
eyes,  he  grows  jealous  of  his  own  money.  He  wishes 
to  be  feared,  though  penniless,  just  as  he  would  be 
loved,  though  a  pauper.  All  these  desires  combined 
to  force  Ashton  Welles  into  a  decision.  He  had  kept 
up  a  desultory  sort  of  friendship  with  Mrs.  Deering, 
the  widow  of  his  predecessor  in  the  presidency  of  the 
trust  company,  and  Anne  Deering  was  the  girl  he 
knew  best  of  all — though  he  really  did  not  know  her 
at  all. 

The  Deerings  had  not  been  fortunate  in  their  in 
vestments;  in  fact,  the  Deering  holdings  of  Van- 
Twiller  stock  had  been  benevolently  assimilated  at 

179 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

one-fifth  of  their  value  by  Ashton  Welles  himself 
during  one  of  those  panics  that  make  reckless  persons 
cease  being  reckless  ever  after.  It  was  not  very 
difficult  for  Anne  Deering  to  be  made  to  feel  that  she 
could  save  her  mother's  life  and  assure  ease  and  com 
fort  for  herself  forever  by  marrying  Mr.  Ashton 
Welles,  who  at  fifty  was  one  of  those  men  whom  old 
friends  invariably  classify  as  well-preserved.  To  be 
just,  he  was  really  distinguished-looking  and  had  a 
sort  of  uniform  urbanity  that  made  him  at  least 
unob  j  ectionable . 

He  was  also  very  rich.  She  married  him.  She 
learned  to  like  him.  He  grew  to  love  her! 

She  was  a  doll — beautiful  and  utterly  useless ;  but 
it  was  this  very  uselessness  that  made  Ashton  Welles 
worship  her.  This  financier,  who  in  his  office  was 
not  only  a  skilful  bargain-driver,  but  preached  and 
practised  the  religion  of  efficiency,  in  his  home 
plunged  into  an  orgy  of  utterly  juvenile  love- 
making.  He  reveled  in  his  wooing,  which  he  had  to 
do  after  his  marriage.  He  did  not  merely  desire  to 
have  a  wife — he  must  have  a  wife  of  an  extreme 
femininity;  she  must  be  one  of  those  womanly 
women  who  exist  only  in  the  imaginations  of  men  of 
a  tyrannical  cast  of  mind.  His  life  having  been  for 
years  exclusively  a  money-making  life,  he  became 
very  selfish.  And  he  continued  to  find  his  greatest 
pleasure  in  pleasing  himself — only  that  he  now  best 
pleased  himself  by  being  a  boy  sweetheart;  by 
achieving  his  puppy  love  at  fifty  and  deeming  it 
marvelously  rejuvenating  and  therefore  altogether 
admirable. 

Very  well !  Now  imagine  that  man,  living  for  two 
years  amid  those  pitifully  evanescent  illusions  so 

1 80 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

cherished  by  middle-aged  men  of  money  who  marry 
very  young  women  of  looks— imagine  that  man  sud 
denly  informed  that  he  is  no  longer  to  be  anything 
but  an  old  man!  And  not  only  old,  but  deserted! 
Imagine  that  selfsame  man  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  invincible  opponent  of  all  old  men — youth! 

To  Ashton  Welles,  sitting  in  his  office,  surrounded 
by  glittering  millions,  there  came  the  deadly  chill  of 
age — doubly  cold  from  being  surrounded  by  gold. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  all  young  men  suddenly 
became  redoubtable  warriors,  love-conquerors,  ir 
resistible  as  a  force  of  nature — and  as  heartless! 
He  was  beaten  by  the  universal  victor — Time! 

He  stared  fixedly  at  a  photograph  of  his  wife  in  an 
elaborately  chased  silver  frame,  but  he  did  not  see 
her.  He  saw  ruins,  as  of  a  conflagration — the  smok 
ing  debris  of  a  destroyed  home;  and  heaps  of  ashes — 
ashes  everywhere!  And  in  the  rising  puffs  of  smoke 
he  saw  faces  of  men — of  young  men — of  very  hand 
some  young  men! 

Stewardson,  the  vice-president,  walked  in — the 
door  was  open,  as  usual.  He  saw  his  chief's  face  and 
was  shocked  into  a  quite  human  feeling  of  con 
sternation. 

"Great  heavens,  Mr.  Welles,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing!"  said  Ashton  Welles.  He  suddenly 
felt  an  overwhelming  impulse  to  hide  his  face  from 
the  sight  of  his  fellow-men.  He  thought  his  fore 
head  must  show  in  black  letters — Fool!  and — and— 
and  ten  thousand  terrible  legends  that  changed  with 
each  beat  of  his  heart,  and  told  what  he  had  been 
and  what  had  happened ;  and — yes — what  was  bound 
to  happen! 

"Nothing!      Nothing!"     he    repeated,     fiercely. 
181 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Nothing,  I  tell  you!"  He  was  certain  all  the  world 
knew  his  disgrace. 

' 'Shall  I  call  a  doctor?" 

"No!  No!"  he  snarled.  Call  in  the  entire  world 
and  gloat  at  his  discomfiture  ?  He  glanced  at  the 
vice-president.  The  impolitic  alarm  on  Steward- 
son's  face  exasperated  him.  "What  do  you  want? 
Damn  it,  what  do  you  want?"  It  was  almost  a 
shriek. 

"I  wanted  to  consult  with  you  about  that  Con 
solidated  Cushion  Tire  bond  issue — " 

"Yes,  yes!     Well?" 

"Have  you  decided  whether  to— 

"Yes!  I  mean  —  no!  I  mean —  Wait!  Ask 
Witter.  I  dictated  a  memorandum  to  him,  I  think. 
Yes,  I  did!" 

He  was  making  desperate  efforts  to  speak  calmly; 
but  he  stopped,  because  Stewardson,  a  dastard  of 
thirty- two,  suddenly  grew  to  resemble  young  Mr. 
Francis  Wolfe !  Stewardson  saw  the  gleam  in  Ashton 
Welles's  eyes  and  felt  that  the  president  must  have 
hated  him  all  his  life ! 

"I'll  get  it  from  Witter,"  he  said,  and  hastily  left 
the  room. 

Welles  stared  wide-eyed  at  the  open  door  for  per 
haps  a  full  minute;  always  he  saw  ruins — smoke 
and  ashes — ashes  everywhere!  And  then  he  started 
up  and  squared  his  shoulders.  He  rang  for  an 
office-boy  and  said  to  him,  "Tell  Mr.  Witter  I've 
gone  for  the  day" — Witter  was  his  private  secretary 
—  and  left  the  office. 

He  could  not  bear  even  to  think  of  going  home, 
for  he  now  had  no  home!  Therefore  he  went  to 
Central  Park  and  walked  aimlessly  about  until  his 

182 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

unaccustomed  muscles  compelled  him  to  sit  down. 
There  he  sat,  thinking!  After  three  hours  he  had 
grown  sufficiently  calm  to  believe  himself  when  he 
called  himself  a  fool  for  being  jealous.  Having  con 
vinced  himself  of  his  folly,  he  clutched  eagerly  at 
every  opportunity  to  close  his  own  ears  to  the 
whisperings  of  his  own  doubts.  At  length  he  went 
to  his  house,  dressed  as  usual,  and  went  to  the 
Cosmopolitan  Club  to  dine. 


IX 

A  few  minutes  after  Ashton  Welles  left  his  office, 
stabbed  to  the  soul  by  the  poisoned  paragraphs  of 
Society  Folk,  Jerningham  sought  Stewardson  and 
told  him  he  had  decided  to  send  some  more  gold-dust 
to  the  Assay  Office.  His  own  attendant,  a  young 
man,  dark-haired  and  blue-eyed,  who  properly  an 
swered  to  the  name  of  Sheehan,  accompanied  him. 
Stewardson,  whose  nerves  had  not  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  Mr.  Welles's  behavior,  decided  that  he, 
also,  would  go  to  the  vaults. 

"I  want  ten  boxes  sent  to  the  Assay  Office/'  said 
Jerningham. 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  superintendent  of  the 
vaults,  very  obsequiously.  To  show  how  eager  he 
was  to  please,  he  asked,  "Any  particular  boxes, 
Mr.  Jerningham?" 

Immediately  a  half-formulated  suspicion  fleeted 
across  the  mind  of  the  second  vice-president  of  the 
VanTwiller  Trust  Company.  How  did  they  know 
what  those  boxes  contained?  How  did  they  know 
that  all  of  them  were  full  of  Yukon  gold  ?  How  did 

183 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

they  know  anything  about  this  man  or  about  his 
treasure — his  alleged  treasure  ? 

Almost  immediately  afterward,  however,  he  re 
proached  himself.  Why,  the  man  had  deposited 
over  a  million  —  the  proceeds  of  twenty  of  the 
boxes ! 

"Oh,  take  any  ten,"  said  Jerningham — "the  first 
ten.  They  are  the  easiest  to  take  out." 

"The  last  ten!"  said  Stewardson,  hastily,  obeying 
an  impulse  that  came  upon  him  like  a  flash  of  light 
ning. 

Jerningham  turned  and  asked:  "Why  the  last 
ten?  They  are  away  back,  and— 

"I  have  my  reasons,"  smiled  Stewardson — the 
smile  of  a  man  who  knows  something  funny  about 
you,  but  does  not  wish  to  tell  it — not  quite  yet.  It 
is  the  most  exasperating  smile  known. 

Jerningham  looked  at  him  a  moment.  Then  he 
said,  coldly:  "Why  not  pick  them  out  haphazard- 
one  here  and  another  there,  as  if  you  were  sampling  a 
mine  and  wanted  to  make  sure  they  hadn't  salted  it 
on  you?"  He  turned  to  the  men  and  said,  "Pick  out 
ten  at  random,  no  two  from  the  same  place;  and  be 
sure  they  are  not  full  of  stable  litter!" 

Stewardson  flushed,  and  whispered  apologetically 
to  the  superintendent,  "The  more  the  boys  work,  the 
more  grateful  he  will  be." 

"Oh,  he  is  very  generous,  anyhow,"  said  Sullivan, 
the  superintendent,  watching  his  helper  and  Sheehan 
pick  out  the  ten  boxes  at  random. 

Stewardson  accompanied  Jerningham  up-stairs  and 
then  excused  himself  long  enough  to  say  to  a  confi 
dential  clerk:  "Follow  Mr.  Jerningham  and  his  ten 
boxes  of  gold-dust,  and  find  out  what  he  does,  how 

184 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

much  he  gets,  and  every  detail  of  interest.  Don't 
let  him  see  you." 

The  clerk  found  out  and  later  reported  to  the  vice- 
president  that  the  ten  boxes  all  contained  Alaskan 
gold-dust,  and  that  their  value  was  $531,687,  the 
boxes  averaging  a  little  better  than  fifty  thousand 
dollars  each.  Stewardson  then  had  the  remaining 
boxes  counted.  There  were  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
one  left.  They  were  worth  over  six  million  dollars. 
Jerningham  ought  to  have  the  gold-dust  coined  and 
then  deposit  the  proceeds  in  the  trust  company. 
The  company  would  allow  him  two  and  a  half  per 
cent. — or  maybe  three  per  cent.' — on  the  six  millions. 
That  would  be  one  hundred  and  eighty  thousand 
dollars  a  year.  The  company  could  then  loan  the 
entire  six  millions,  not  having  to  bother  with  keep 
ing  a  reserve  like  the  national  banks,  and,  the  way 
the  money-market  was,  the  money  could  be  loaned 
at  five  per  cent.  That  would  be  three  hundred 
thousand  dollars  a  year. 

Men  properly  must  end  in  dust;  but  dust,  when 
gold,  should  end  in  eagles.  He  would  speak  to 
Jerningham  about  it — one  hundred  and  eighty  thou 
sand  dollars  a  year  that  Jerningham  was  not  mak 
ing — which  was  silly !  And  one  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  a  year  the  company  was  not  making— 
which  was  a  tragedy ! 

Ashton  Welles  sent  word  to  the  office  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning  that  he  would  not  be  down  until 
late,  if  at  all.  He  did  not  send  word  that  he  had 
decided  to  consult  his  lawyer  about  the  Society 
Folk  article.  He  had  received  eight  marked  copies, 
addressed  to  him  at  his  house  in  different  hand 
writings,  and  he  did  not  know  that  on  his  desk  at 
13  185 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

the  office  there  were  a  dozen  more.  Friends  always 
tell  you  about  anonymous  attacks  anonymously. 
They  wait  for  them. 

Jerningham  seemed  disappointed  when  he  learned, 
at  ten-thirty,  that  Mr.  Welles  might  not  come  to 
the  office  at  all.  Stewardson  came  upon  him  look 
ing  .disgruntled.  That  did  not  deter  the  vice-presi 
dent  from  broaching  the  subject  nearest  his  heart. 
"I'd  like  to  ask  you  one  question,  Mr.  Jerningham. 
Of  course  I  know  you  must  have  a  reason — a  very 
good  reason,  too — " 

"If  the  reason  is  good  I'll  confess,"  said  Jerning 
ham,  pleasantly. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  your  reason  is  for 
not  sending  all  your  gold  to  the  Assay  Office?" 

"My  reason  is  that  I  want  to  make  a  lot  of  money 
later  by  not  sending  the  gold  to  the  Assay  Office 
now.  Remember  my  very  words !" 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  do  it?"  Stewardson 
could  not  help  asking,  because  he  was  so  puzzled 
that  his  sense  of  humor  was  paralyzed. 

"By  having  the  gold— that's  how." 

"That's  all  right!  But  why  don't  you  change  it 
into  coin  ?  That  way  you  can  have  it  at  a  moment's 
notice." 

"My  dear  chap,  do  you  know  how  many  hours 
it  will  take  the  Assay  Office,  after  I  take  my  dust 
in  there,  to  give  me  a  check  for  the  proceeds?  I  get 
ninety  per  cent,  of  the  value  at  once.  If  I  cash  this 
gold  now  I'll  spend  it.  I  know  it!  I  never  could 
resist  the  temptation  to  spend — it  is  my  one  weak 
ness.  And  if  I  spent  it  what  would  I  have  to  show 
for  the  hardships  of  thirty  years?" 

"But  why  don't  you  deposit  it  with  us?  We'll 

186 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

allow  you  two  and  a  half  per  cent.  Or  if  you  make 
it  a  time  deposit  we  can  do  better  than  that  by  you. 
You  know  you  can  always  get  gold  for  it  if  you  ask 
us  for  it." 

"I  can,  can  I?"  laughed  Jerningham,  with  a  sort 
of  good-natured  mockery.  "How  about  1907  and 
your  old  clearing-house  certificates — eh?  What?" 

Stewardson  was  nettled.  So  he  permitted  himself 
the  supreme,  all-conquering  argument  of  business: 

"But  you  are  losing  one  hundred  and  eighty  thou 
sand  dollars  a  year  by  leaving  your  gold  uncoined 
and  undeposited." 

"I  won't  lose  a  year's  interest,  because  it  isn't 
going  to  take  a  year  for  the  big  panic  to  come." 

Stewardson  laughed — a  kindly  laugh.  "For  pity's 
sake,  don't  wait  for  that!  Panics  have  a  habit  of 
not  coming  if  expected.  Just  now  everybody  is 
bluer  than  indigo.  You'd  think  the  United  States 
was  on  its  last  legs.  Invest  at  once,  and  don't 
wait  for  the  bargains  at  the  funeral  that  may  never 
come." 

"How  sound  is  this  institution?"  Jerningham 
looked  Stewardson  full  in  the  face. 

The  vice-president  answered,  smilingly,  "Oh,  I 
guess  we'll  weather  the  storm." 

"Then  I'll  buy  more  stock.  Mr.  Welles  advised 
me  to  buy  all  I  could  get  hold  of.  A  wonderful 
man — " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  acquiesced  Stewardson,  solemnly. 

"Wonderful!  Great  judgment!"  pursued  Jerning 
ham,  with  a  sort  of  boyish  enthusiasm  that  made 
Stewardson  think  his  superior  had  designs  on  the 
Klondike  gold  in  the  vaults.  "He  is  so  clear-cut — 
and  never,  never  loses  his  head!  To  tell  you  the 

187 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

truth,"  and  Jerningham  lowered  his  voice,  "I  used 
to  think  he  was  an  icicle — the  sort  of  man  nothing 
can  disturb;  but,  for  all  his  calmness  and  imper 
turbability,  he  has  a  great  warm  heart  and  a  great 
big  brain!" 

Stewardson  had  never  before  heard  anybody  ac 
cuse  the  president  of  the  VanTwiller  Trust  Company 
of  having  any  heart  at  all.  Why  had  Welles  taken 
the  pains  to  pose  before  the  Klondike  miner  as  a 
philanthropist?  And  why  had  the  imperturbable 
Ashton  Welles  been  so  perturbed  the  day  before? 

11  Ablest  man  in  this  country!"  said  Stewardson, 
his  mind  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  his  unformulated 
mysteries  and  his  own  half -asked  questions. 

' 'So  I'll  get  a  little  more  of  the  stock,"  said  Jer 
ningham. 

"Go  ahead!  You  can't  go  wrong,"  Stewardson 
assured  him;  "in  fact,  you  ought  to  send  some  of 
your  gold  to  the  Assay  Office  and — " 

"What  will  you  lend  me  on  my  gold — on  the  six 
millions  I've  got  down-stairs?"  asked  Jerningham, 
with  a  frown.  He  looked  intently  at  the  vice-presi 
dent  with  his  cold,  gray  eyes,  and  Stewardson 
somehow  fancied  he  saw  a  challenge  in  them;  but 
he  was  an  old  bird  at  the  game.  He  laughed  and 
said,  jovially: 

"Not  a  penny!" 

"I  know  it.  It  shows  you  how  incompetent  all 
these  financial  institutions  are.  You  think  you  are 
doing  your  duty  by  being  suspicious — what?  Well, 
you  don't  unless  you  are  intelligently  suspicious. 
Never  mind;  you  are  only  the  vice-president.  I'll 
buy  the  stock  just  the  same."  And  Jerningham 
laughed,  exaggeratedly  forgiving,  and  went  away. 

188 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

Later  in  the  day,  when  Stewardson  thought  he 
might  sell  his  own  holdings  of  VanTwiller  Trust 
stock  to  Jerningham  and  trust  to  luck  to  pick  it  up 
again  here  and  there  at  a  lower  figure,  he  called  up 
a  firm  of  brokers  who  made  a  specialty  of  dealing  in 
bank  and  trust-company  stocks.  He  was  surprised 
to  learn  that  V.T.  stock  was  scarce  and  thirty  points 
higher.  The  vice-president  called  up  specialists  and 
heard  the  same  story — the  floating  supply  had  been 
quietly  bought. 

"By  whom?"  he  asked  Earhart. 

"You  know  very  well!"  retorted  the  last  broker, 
in  an  aggrieved  tone  of  voice. 

"I  do  not!"  Stewardson  assured  him. 

"Well,  it  all  goes  into  your  office." 

"Mine?" 

"Yes — yours!  And  it's  paid  by  your  checks.  The 
name  signed  is  Alfred  Jerningham.  Are  you  going 
to  cut  a  melon?  Just  whisper!" 

"Oh!"  and  Stewardson  laughed.  "What  a  suspi 
cious  man  you  are,  Dave!" 

In  the  alarmingly  inexplicable  frame  of  mind  in 
which  Ashton  Welles  was  Stewardson  did  not  feel 
like  speaking  to  his  superior  about  Jerningham 's  in 
vestment.  There  was  no  reason  why  the  Klondiker 
should  not  buy  all  the  VanTwiller  Trust  Company 
stock  he  could  pay  for;  but  a  day  or  two  afterward 
the  vice-president  learned  that  Jerningham  had 
secured  control,  by  purchase  outright  or  by  option, 
at  prices  ranging  from  three  hundred  and  ninety-five 
to  five  hundred  dollars  a  share,  of  twenty-two  thou 
sand  shares.  That  was  important  for  two  reasons: 
In  the  first  place  it  was  more  than  Jerningham  could 
pay  for  even  if  he  sold  all  his  gold-dust;  and,  sec- 

189 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

ondly,  such  a  block  in  unfriendly  hands  might  work 
injury  to  the  controlling  clique.  He  decided  to  see 
the  president;  but  he  was  told  that  Mr.  Ashton 
Welles  was  engaged  at  that  moment. 

Jerningham  was  talking  to  him.  They  had  ex 
changed  greetings  with  much  cordiality. 

"Have  you  heard  from  Mrs.  Welles?"  asked  the 
Alaskan. 

"She  hasn't  arrived  yet — " 

"I  know  it.  But  I  received  a  wireless  from  young 
Wolfe—" 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Ashton  Welles  before  he 
knew  it. 

Jerningham  looked  mildly  surprised.  He  answered : 

"It  was  a  funny  message.  He  asked  me  to  go  to 
his  room  and  get  his  trunks,  and  send  all  his  belong 
ings  to  London,  as  he  had  decided  to  stay  there 
indefinitely." 

"Yes?"     It  was  all  Welles  could  say. 

"So  I  wired  back,  'Are  you  crazy?' " 

"Did  he  answer  that?" 

"Yes."     Jerningham  paused.     Then  he  laughed. 

"What  did  he  answer?"  queried  Welles. 

"Oh,  he  is  crazy,  all  right.  He  answered,  'Yes— 
with  joy!  Please  send  trunks  to  Thornton's 
Hotel— '  " 

"What?"  Ashton  Welles  rose  to  his  feet,  his 
face  livid.  ,  It  was  the  London  hotel  where  Mrs. 
Deering  lived,  the  hotel  to  which  Mrs.  Welles  was 
going! 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Jerningham,  in 
amazement. 

"N-nothing!"  said  Ashton  Welles,  'huskily.  He 
gulped  twice.  Then,  having  spent  thirty-five  years 

190 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

in  Wall  Street  making  money,  he  explained,  "I've 
got  a  terrible  toothache!"  And  he  put  his  hand  to 
his  left  cheek. 

"I'm  sorry!"  said  Jerningham  so  sympathetically 
that  Welles,  for  all  his  distress — and  nothing  is  so 
inherently  selfish  as  suffering — felt  a  kindly  feeling 
toward  the  man  from  Alaska.  "Could  I  ask  your 
advice  about  a  business  matter?" 

"Certainly!" 

Ashton  Welles  tried  to  smile.  It  was  ghastly,  but 
Jerningham  did  not  remark  it.  He  said,  placidly: 

"I've  bought  quite  a  little  bunch  of  VanTwiller 
stock  because  you  are  its  president,  Mr.  Welles. 
On  my  honor,  that  is  my  only  reason.  I've  paid 
good  prices,  too;  but  you  are  worth  it — to  me!" 
And  Jerningham  beamed  adoringly  on  the  efficient 
president  of  the  VanTwiller  Trust  Company. 

Ashton  Welles  said,  "Thank  you!"  and  even  tried 
to  feel  grateful  to  this  queer  character  from  the 
frozen  North  who  was  so  naive  in  his  admiration — 
and  envied  him  for  not  having  a  young  wife  who 
had  sailed  on  the  same  steamer  with  an  exceedingly 
attractive  young  man. 

"I  guess  I'm  all  right  in  my  purchase — what?" 

"Oh  yes!"  said  Welles.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
Ruritania.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  him  that  this 
Monte  Cristo  might  be  worth  while  to  pluck. 

"Thank  you.  I  hope  I  didn't  bother  you.  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Welles." 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Jerningham.  Er — come  in 
any  time  you  think  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

As  Jerningham  was  leaving  the  president's  office 
he  almost  bumped  into  the  vice-president. 

"You've  bought  quite  a  lot  of  our  stock,"  said 
191 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Stewardson,  full  of  his  errand.  His  voice  had  an 
accusing  ring. 

"Yes.  I  was  just  speaking  to  Mr.  Welles  about 
it." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"Ask  him!"  teased  Jerningham,  with  a  smile,  and 
went  away. 

Stewardson  felt  it  his  duty  to  do  exactly  as 
Jerningham  had  mockingly  suggested.  It  was  an 
abnormal  situation.  That  being  the  case,  there  was 
no  regular  provision — no  indicated  chapter  and 
verse — for  meeting  it.  The  principal  function  of  a 
chief  in  business  is  to  supply  answers  to  puzzled 
subordinates. 

Ashton  Welles  was  sitting  back  in  his  swivel  chair. 
He  was  staring  fixedly  at  a  hook  on  the  picture- 
molding  that  had  been  left  there  after  the  picture 
was  taken  away.  He  was  thinking  that  if  he  em 
ployed  private  detectives  in  London  he  would  have 
to  hire  them  by  cable.  There  are  suspicions  a  man 
cannot  help  having  and  yet  cannot  set  down  in  plain 
black  and  white.  He  cannot  hint  when  he  writes, 
for  written  instructions  must  always  be  explicit  and 
categorical.  That  is  why  no  love-letter  of  which 
the  real  meaning  is  to  be  read  "between  the  lines" 
is  ever  satisfactory  to  the  recipient. 

Ashton  Welles  turned  his  head  and,  still  frowning, 
asked  Stewardson,  sharply: 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"It's  about  Jerningham.  You  know  he  has  been 
buying  our  stock.  But  I  thought  you  ought  to 
know- 
He  wished  to  tell  the  president  what  a  big  block 
the  Alaskan  had  already  secured.  But  the  president, 

192 


AS    PROOFS   OF    HOLY    WRIT 

from  force  of  habit,  perhaps,  or  possibly  by  reason 
of  the  irritation  of  his  nerves,  assumed  the  usual 
financial  attitude  of  omniscience: 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  he  said.  "Anything  else 
you  wish  to  say  to  me?" 

"No,  sir!"  answered  Stewardson,  who  felt  re 
buffed  and  now  would  not  have  turned  in  an  alarm 
of  fire  if  he  had  seen  the  place  beginning  to  burn. 
He  was,  after  all,  human. 

You  cannot,  in  your  lust  for  absolute  power, 
make  your  subordinates  into  sublimated  office-boys 
or  decorative  figureheads  without  paying  the  price 
some  time.  Stewardson  was  justified  in  assuming 
that  Mr.  Welles  was  worried  about  business — it  was 
perfectly  obvious;  and  it  was  a  natural  suspicion, 
also,  that  said  deal  must  threaten  destruction  to  the 
company  since  Ashton  Welles  was  so  eager  to  have 
poor  Jerningham  buy  so  much  VanTwiller  stock. 
Therefore  Stewardson  and  his  intimate  friends,  in 
order  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  very  promptly  sold  out 
their  own  holdings — to  poor  misguided  Jerningham-s 
brokers. 

Of  course  other  people  who  did  not  wish  Welles 
well  heard  about  it,  and  the  whisper  ran  about  the 
Street,  getting  blacker  and  blacker  as  it  ran,  until 
everybody  knew  something  had  happened — every 
body  except  the  directors  of  the  VanTwiller  Trust 
Company.  And  when  the  transfer-books  closed  for 
the  annual  meeting  of  the  stockholders  it  was  found 
that  Mr.  Alfred  Jerningham  owned,  by  purchase  or 
option,  and  had  irrevocable  proxies  on,  a  little  more 
than  twenty-eight  thousand  shares  of  the  stock. 
This,  together  with  the  twelve  thousand  shares 
owned  jointly  by  Patrick  T.  Behan  and  Oliver 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Judson,  the  street-railroad  magnates,  and  the  blocks 
controlled  by  the  Garvin  brothers,  Tammany  con 
tractors,  and  Mayer  &  Shanberg,  F.  R.  Chisolm, 
John  Matson  &  Company,  and  others  of  the  Behan- 
Judson  clique,  which  once  tried  to  secure  control 
of  the  company  and  were  foiled  by  Ashton  Welles, 
made  a  combination  that  was  bound  to  win  at  the 
annual  election. 

Jerningham  ceased  going  to  the  VanTwiller  Trust 
Company  because  Ashton  Welles  had  sailed  for 
London  on  the  receipt  of  a  cablegram  that  read: 

Leaving  for  Continent.  Mother  and  I  cannot  return  before 
three  months.  Will  write  soon. 

ANNE. 

Instead  of  calling  on  his  friend  Stewardson, 
Jerningham  preferred  to  spend  hours  and  hours  con 
versing  with  Patrick  T.  Behan,  "the  most  danger 
ous  man  in  Wall  Street!" — and  the  slickest.  But  on 
the  day  before  the  election  Jerningham  did  call  on 
Stewardson  and  offered  to  sell  his  holdings  of  Van 
Twiller  stock  at  six  hundred  dollars  a  share. 

"Why,  I  thought  you—  "  began  the  vice-president. 

"I  know  you  did.  I  wanted  you  to.  But  six 
hundred  dollars  is  only  twenty-five  dollars  a  share 
more  than  Behan,  and  Judson,  and  Garvin,  and  the 
rest  of  those  pirates  have  offered  me.  I've  decided 
not  to  be  a  stockholder  of  the  trust  company;  so 
just  get  your  friends  together  and  tell  them  if  they 
want  to  retain  the  control  they  can  give  you  a 
check  for  me — six  hundred  dollars  a  share  on  twenty- 
eight  thousand,  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  shares. 
Put  it  down — twenty-eight  thousand,  one  hundred 
and  twenty- three  shares.  Good  day!" 

194 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

' '  Wait !     I  want  to  say—' ' 

1  'Don't  say  it!  Write  it!  I'm  still  at  the  Bra 
bant,"  said  Jerningham,  coldly.  "I  advise  you  to 
get  at  Mr.  Welles  on  the  steamer  by  wireless.  Good 
day!" 

"But,  I— "  shouted  Stewardson. 

Jerningham  paid  no  attention  to  him  and  walked 
away. 

Later  in  the  day  negotiations  were  resumed.  In 
the  end  Jerningham  accepted  a  little  less;  but  the 
deal  yielded  him  a  net  profit  of  about  two  million 
dollars.  He  insisted  upon  being  paid  in  gold  coin. 
This  convinced  Stewardson  and  the  other  victims 
that  Jerningham  was  out  of  his  mind ;  but  there  is  no 
law  that  enables  officers  of  a  trust  company  to 
imprison  a  gold  maniac  or  to  take  away  his  gold, 
particularly  when  his  lawyers  stand  very  high  in 
the  profession. 

Five  minutes  after  getting  the  gold  coin  in  his 
possession — and  drawing  every  cent  of  it — Jerning 
ham  told  Stewardson  he  would  leave  the  dust  in  the 
VanT wilier  vaults.  That  reassured  Stewardson, 
who  otherwise  might  have  suspected  Jerningham  of 
various  crimes.  He  then  sent  two  cablegrams  to 
London.  One  was  to 

KATHRYN  KEOGH, 

Thornton's  Hotel,  London. 

Your  services  are  no  longer  needed.  Go  ahead  and  have  a 
nice  time!  Thanks  awfully!  JERNINGHAJI. 

" 

The  other  was  to  Francis  Wolfe — same  address. 
It  read : 

You  ought  to  marry  Kathryn  Keogh.  Never  mind  anything 
else.  I  am  disappearing  for  good.  God  bless  you  both,  my 
children!  Letter  follows.  JERNINGHAM. 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Francis  Wolfe  showed  his  cablegram  to  Miss 
Keogh  and  Miss  Keogh  did  not  show  hers  to  Francis 
Wolfe. 

A  week  later  Frank  asked  Miss  Keogh  to  read  a 
letter  he  had  received  from  Jerningham,  and  to  tell 
him  what  to  do. 

This  was  the  letter. 

DEAR  Boy, — We  needed  a  million  or  two  out  of  Ashton  Welles, 
and  the  only  way  we  could  see  of  getting  it  was  by  selling  to  him 
what  he  already  had — to  wit,  the  control  of  the  VanTwiller 
Trust  Company.  From  previous  operations  the  syndicate  I 
have  the  honor  to  represent  had  accumulated  enough  cash  to 
render  this  operation  feasible;  but  Welles  watched  the  trades 
in  VanTwiller  stock  so  closely  that  we  could  not  have  bought 
a  thousand  shares  without  blocking  our  own  game.  So  we 
planned  our  operations  very  carefully,  as  we  always  do.  And 
because  I  like  you  I  will  tell  you  how  we  went  about  it — that 
you  may  profit  by  our  example. 

First,  I  had  to  become  instantly  and  sensationally  known  as 
the  possessor  of  vast  wealth.  The  mere  deposit  of  a  million 
or  two  in  a  bank  would  not  do  it.  We  must  have  the  cash  and 
a  stupendous  cash -making  property — hence  the  mines  in  the 
Klondike.  Purely  mythical  mines,  dear  lad!  We  sent  to 
Alaska,  bought  $1,686,000  of  gold-dust,  put  it  in  boxes,  and  put 
a  lot  of  lead  in  other  boxes — now  in  the  VanT.  vaults! — thereby 
increasing  our  less  than  two  million  into  more  than  eight — and 
nobody  hurt  thereby!  Then  the  shipment  to  Seattle,  so  that 
every  step  could  be  verified — and  the  special  bullion  train  to 
New  York;  and  the  eccentric  miner — myself — with  his  gold — no 
myth  about  the  gold — what?  in  a  New  York  hotel;  and  of  course 
the  reporters  were  only  too  willing  to  help  and  to  magnify  our 
gold-dust. 

The  Planet's  articles  were  our  letters  of  introduction  to  the 
trust  company  and  to  Wall  Street.  Could  not  have  done  better 
— could  we?  But  how  to  catch  Welles  off  his  guard?  By 
breaking  it  down,  of  course.  Best  way?  By  rousing  jealousy. 
That's  where  you  come  in.  Mrs.  Welles  must  go  to  England 
with  you  on  the  same  steamer.  How?  By  winning  your 
friendship  and  rousing  your  romantic  interest  in  an  unhappy 

196 


AS    PROOFS    OF    HOLY    WRIT 

love-affair — that  would,  moreover,  explain  my  interest  in  Mrs. 
Welles.  Of  course  there  never  was  any  Naida  Deering  for  me 
to  be  interested  in! 

But  you  had  to  meet  Welles's  wife.  How?  By  means  of 
your  sisters.  How  did  I  make  friends  of  them?  By  reforming 
you  and  making  you  my  heir. 

How  did  I  make  Mrs.  Welles  take  the  same  steamer  that  you 
did?  By  having  her  mother  cable  for  her.  How  did  I  do  that? 
Ask  Miss  Keogh. 

I  admit  that  much  of  what  we  were  compelled  to  do  was  not 
gentlemanly;  but,  after  all,  our  only  crime  is  the  crime  of  having 
been  business  men — buying  something  at  four  dollars  and  selling 
it  at  five  or  six  dollars. 

Take  my  advice,  dear  boy,  and  stay  on  the  water-wagon! 
If  you  marry  Miss  Keogh  I  think  you  can  show  this  letter  to 
A.  Welles  and  ask  him  to  give  you  a  nice  position  in  the  trust 
company. 

I  am  sorry  I  cannot  see  you  again;  but  believe  me,  dear  boy, 
that  we  are  very  grateful  for  your  efficient  assistance.  We 
would  send  you  a  check — only  we  need  it  in  our  business. 
Tell  Jimmy  Parkhurst  to  tell  you  and  Amos  F.  Kidder  all 
about  it. 

Yours  truly, 

THE  PLUNDER  RECOVERY  SYNDICATE, 
Per  ALFRED  JERNINGHAM. 

But  it  was  a  long  time  before  Frank  Wolfe  re 
turned  to  New  York — without  Miss  Keogh,  who 
flatly  refused  to  marry  him.  Jerningham  had  dis 
appeared,  leaving  absolutely  no  trail.  Parkhurst  in 
troduced  Frank  Wolfe  to  Fiske,  but  all  that  came 
of  it  was  that  Fiske  added  a  few  fresh  notes  to  his 
collection. 


IV 

CHEAP  AT  A  MILLION 


TOM  MERRIWETHER,  only  son  and  heir  of 
E.  H.  Merriwether,  finished  the  grape  -  fruit 
and  took  up  the  last  of  that  morning's  mail.  He 
had  acquired  the  feminine  habit  of  reading  letters 
at  the  table  from  his  father,  who  had  the  wasteful 
American  vice  of  time-saving. 

He  read  the  card,  frowned,  glanced  at  his  father, 
and  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  speaking;  but  he 
changed  his  mind,  laughed,  and  tore  the  card  into 
bits. 

The  day  was  Monday,  and  this  was  what  the 
card  said: 

If  Mr.  Thomas  Thome  Merriwether  will  go  to  777  Fifth 
Avenue  any  forenoon  this  week  and  answer  just  one  little 
question  about  his  past  life  he  will  hear  something  to  his  ad 
vantage. 

Idle  men  who  live  in  New  York  are  always  busy. 
Tom  had  many  things  to  think  about;  but  all  of 
them  were  about  the  present  or  the  future.  His  past 
caused  him  neither  uneasiness  nor  remorse. 

On  the  following  Monday  young  Mr.  Merriwether 
received,  among  other  invitations,  this: 

198 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

If  Tom  Merri wether  will  call  at  777  Fifth  Avenue  any  fore 
noon  this  week  and  answer  one  question  he  will  do  that  which 
is  both  kindly — and  wise! 

It  was  in  the  same  handwriting,  on  the  same  kind 
of  card,  and  in  the  same  kind  of  ink  as  the  first. 
Now  Tom  had  the  Merri  wether  imagination.  His 
father  exercised  it  in  building  railroads  into  waterless 
deserts  whereon  he  clearly  saw  a  myriad  men  labor, 
love,  and  multiply,  thereby  insuring  freight  and  pas 
sengers  to  the  same  railroads.  The  son  had  to 
invent  his  romances  in  New  York. 

Ordinarily  the  second  invitation  would  have  given 
him  something  to  busy  himself  with;  but  it  happened 
that  he  was  at  that  moment  planning  to  do  a  heart 
breaking  thing  without  breaking  any  heart.  Billy 
Larremore,  the  veteran  whose  devotion  to  polo  was 
responsible  for  so  many  of  the  team's  victories  in 
the  past,  was  not  aware  that  age  had  bade  him  cease 
playing.  It  would  break  his  loyal  heart  not  to  play 
in  the  forthcoming  international  match.  Tom  Mer 
ri  wether  had  been  delegated  to  break  the  news. 

Thinking  about  it  made  him  forget  all  about  the 
letter  until  the  following  Monday,  when  he  received 
the  third  invitation : 

MERRIWETHER, — Come  to  777  Fifth  Avenue  Tuesday  morn 
ing  at  ten-thirty  without  fail  and  answer  the  question. 

He  crumpled  the  card  and  was  about  to  throw  it 
away  when  he  changed  his  mind.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  wise  to  give  it  to  a  detective  agency.  But  what 
could  he  say  he  feared?  Then  he  decided  it  was 
probably  a  joke.  Somebody  wished  to  put  him  in 
the  ridiculous  position  of  ringing  the  bell  of  777, 

199 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

showing  the  card — and  being  told  to  get  out.  It 
was  to  be  regretted  that  this  would  seem  funny  to 
some  of  his  perennially  juvenile  intimates  at  the 
Rivulet  Club. 

An  hour  later,  as  he  walked  down  the  Avenue, 
he  looked  curiously  at  777.  It  was  one  of  those  new 
comer  houses  erected  by  speculative  builders  to 
sell  furnished  to  out-of-town  would-be  climbers  or  to 
local  stock-market  bankers  who,  being  Hebrews, 
were  too  sensible  to  wish  to  climb,  but  were  not  sen 
sible  enough  not  to  wish  to  live  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

Tom  resolved  to  ask  Raymond  Silliman,  who 
played  at  being  in  the  real-estate  business,  to  find 
out  who  lived  at  777.  Meantime  he  did  a  little 
shopping — wedding-presents — and  went  to  luncheon 
at  his  club.  He  had  not  quite  finished  his  coffee 
when  he  was  summoned  to  the  telephone. 

" Hello!  Mr.  Merriwether?"  said  a  woman's  voice 
—clear,  sweet,  and  vibrant,  but  unknown.  "This 
is  Miss  Hervey — the  nurse — Dr.  Leighton's  trained 
nurse.  They  asked  me  to  tell  you  about  your  father. 
Don't  be  alarmed!'* 

"Go  on!"  commanded  young  Merriwether, 
sharply. 

"It  is  nothing  serious — really!  But  if  you  could 
come  home  it  probably—  Yes,  doctor!  I  am  com 
ing!"  And  the  conversation  ceased  abruptly. 

Tom  instantly  left  the  club.  He  took  the  solitary 
taxicab  that  stood  in  front  of  the  club.  He  after 
ward  recalled  the  fact  that  there  was  only  one  where 
usually  there  were  half  a  dozen. 

"Eight-sixty-nine  Fifth  Avenue.  Go  up  Madison 
to  Sixtieth  and  then  turn  into  the  Avenue.  Hurry!" 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur. 

200 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

The  taxicab  dashed  madly  up  Madison  and  up 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  finally  stopped — not  before  the 
Merri wether  home,  but  in  front  of  Number  777. 
Before  he  could  ask  the  chauffeur  what  he  meant  by 
it  both  doors  of  the  cab  opened  at  once  and  two  men 
sandwiched  between  them  Mr.  Thomas  Thorne 
Merriwether.  The  one  on  the  west,  or  Central  Park, 
side  threateningly  held  in  his  hand  a  business-like 
javelin — not  at  all  the  kind  that  silly  people  hang 
on  the  walls  in  their  childish  attempts  at  decorative 
barbarity.  The  man  who  half  entered  the  taxi- 
cab  from  the  east,  or  sidewalk,  side  held  in  his  left 
hand  a  beer-schooner  full  of  a  colorless  liquid  that 
smoked,  and  in  his  right  something  completely  but 
loosely  covered  by  a  white-linen  handkerchief. 

"Please  listen,  Mr.  Merriwether!'*  said  the  man 
with  the  glass.  "Do  nothing!  Don't  even  move! 
Hear  me  first!" 

"Is  my  father—  " 

"I  am  glad  to  say  he  is  well  and  happy,  and  work 
ing  in  his  office  down- town.  The  message  that 
brought  you  here  was  a  subterfuge.  Your  father  is 
as  usual.  We  arranged  it  so  you  had  to  take  this 
particular  taxicab.  Don't  stir,  please!" 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  asked  Tom,  impa 
tiently. 

"I  am  about  to  have  the  honor  of  telling  you," 
answered  the  man. 

He  had  no  hat  and  wore  clerical  garments.  His 
clean-shaved  face  was  pale — almost  sallow — and 
young  Merriwether  noticed  that  his  forehead  was 
very  high.  His  dark-brown  eyes  were  full  of  the 
earnestness  of  all  zealots,  which  makes  you  dislike 
to  enter  into  an  argument — first,  because  of  the  fu- 
14  201 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

tility  of  arguing  with  a  zealot;  and,  second,  because 
said  zealot  probably  knows  a  million  times  more 
about  the  subject  than  you  and  can  out  argue  you 
without  trouble.  So  Tom  simply  listened  with  an 
alertness  that  would  not  overlook  any  chance  to 
strike  back. 

"This  glass  contains  fuming  sulphuric  acid.  It 
will  sear  the  face  and  destroy  the  eyesight  with 
much  rapidity  and  completeness.  Also" — here  he 
shook  off  the  handkerchief  from  his  right  hand  and 
showed  a  revolver — "this  is  the  very  latest  in  auto 
matics;  marvelously  efficient ;  dumdum  bullets ;  stop 
an  elephant!  I  am  about  to  solicit  a  great  favor." 

Tom  Merri wether  looked  into  the  earnest,  plead 
ing  eyes.  Then  he  glanced  on  the  other  side,  at  the 
bull-necked  husky  with  the  business-like  spear.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  clerical  garb. 

"I  see  I  am  in  the  hands  of  my  friends !"  said  Tom, 
pleasantly. 

"The  doctor  was  right,"  said  the  man  with  the 
glass,  as  if  to  himself. 

"Come!  Come!"  said  young  Mr.  Merriwether. 
"How  much  am  I  to  give?  You  know,  I  never  carry 
much  cash  with  me." 

"We,  dear  Mr.  Merriwether,"  said  the  pale-faced 
man  in  an  amazingly  deferential  voice,  "propose  to 
be  the  donors.  If  you  will  kindly  permit  us  we  shall 
give  you  what  is  more  costly  than  rubies." 

"Yes?"  Tom's  voice  was  perhaps  less  skeptical 
than  sarcastic. 

"Yes,  sir.  Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  accept 
our  invitation — the  fourth,  dear  Mr.  Merriwether — 
to  join  us  at  777  Fifth  Avenue — right  here,  sir — 
and  answer  one  question?  Please  listen  carefully  to 

202 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

what  I  am  saying:  You  don't  have  to  go.  More 
over,  if  you  should  go  you  don't  have  to  answer  any 
question.  We  would  not,  for  worlds,  compel  you. 
But,  for  your  own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  your  father's 
peace  of  mind  and  of  the  Merriwether  fortune,  for 
the  sake  of  your  happiness  in  this  world  and  in  the 
next,  for  all  that  all  the  Merriwethers  hold  most 
dear — come  with  me  and,  if  you  are  very  wise, 
answer  the  question  that  will  be  asked  you  by  the 
wisest  man  in  all  the  world." 

"He  must  be  a  regular  Solomon — "  began  Tom, 
but  the  man  held  up  the  glass  and  went  on,  very 
earnestly : 

"Listen,  please!  If  you  decide  to  accept  our  in 
vitation  I  shall  spill  this  acid  in  the  street  and  I  shall 
give  you  this  revolver.  I  repeat,  you  do  not  have 
to  answer  the  question.  You  will  not  be  harmed 
or  molested.  I  pledge  you  my  word.  Will  you,  in 
return,  give  me  yours  to  follow  me  at  once  into  777, 
and  that  you  will  not  shoot  unless  you  sincerely 
think  you  are  in  danger?" 

Tom  Merriwether  looked  at  the  pale-faced  man  a 
moment.  He  was  willing  to  take  his  chances  with  that 
face.  Also,  he  could  not  otherwise  find  the  solution 
of  this  puzzling  affair.  Therefore  he  said: 

' '  Yes.     I  give  you  my  word. ' ' 

Instantly  the  pale-faced  man  with  the  high  fore 
head  laid  the  revolver  on  the  seat  beside  young 
Mr.  Merriwether  and  withdrew  from  the  cab.  Tom 
saw  him  spill  the  fuming  acid  into  the  gutter.  The 
burly  javelin-man  took  himself  off.  The  temptation 
to  use  the  butt  of  the  revolver  on  the  clerical- 
garbed  man  with  the  earnest  eyes  came  to  Tom, 
but  he  saw  in  a  flash  that  if  he  should  do  such  a 

203 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

thing  he  would  be  compelled  in  self-defense  to  tell 
a  story  utterly  unbelievable. 

Moreover,  the  pale-faced  man  was  a  slender  little 
chap  of  middle  age  and  no  match  for  big  Tom 
Merriwether.  So,  assuring  himself  that  the  revolver 
was  in  truth  loaded  and  that  it  worked,  he  put  it  in 
his  pocket,  kept  his  grasp  on  it  there,  and  got  out  of 
the  taxicab.  His  one  impelling  motive  now  was 
curiosity.  Afraid  ?  With  the  pistol  and  his  muscles 
and  his  youth,  on  Fifth  Avenue,  at  two-thirty  in  the 
afternoon? 

The  pale-faced  man,  the  empty  glass  in  one  hand, 
walked  toward  the  door  of  777  without  so  much  as 
turning  his  head.  Tom  followed. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  man  in  livery  who 
took  Mr.  Merri wether's  hat  and  cane.  Tom  saw 
in  the  furnishings  of  the  house  —  complete  with 
that  curious  unhuman  completeness  of  a  modern 
hotel — the  kind  of  furnishings  that  interior  deco 
rators  usually  sell  to  first-generation  rich  on  their 
arrival  at  Fifth  Avenue  residenceship.  The  furni 
ture  had  every  qualification  possessed  by  furniture 
in  order  not  to  suggest  a  home  to  live  in.  Where 
fore  Tom,  whose  mind  always  worked  quickly,  rea 
soned  to  himself: 

"Rented  for  the  occasion  to  the  man  who  has 
made  me  come  to  him." 

Also  Tom  noticed  four  men-servants,  all  of  them 
well  built  and  all  of  them  owning  faces  that  somehow 
were  not  servant  faces.  The  revolver,  which  had 
seemed  amply  sufficient  outside,  seemed  less  so  with 
in  the  house.  Supposing  he  killed  one — or  even  two 
— the  other  two  would  down  him  in  an  affray.  He 
tightened  his  grip  on  the  revolver  and  planned  and 

204 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

rehearsed  a  shooting  affair  in  which  four  men  in 
livery  were  disabled  with  four  shots.  A  great  pity 
E.  H.  Merri wether  was  such  a  very  rich  man — a 
great  pity  for  his  son  Tom. 

At  a  door,  on  the  center  panel  of  which  was  a 
monogram  in  black,  red,  and  gold  the  last  of  the  foot 
men  knocked  gently.  The  door  was  thereupon 
opened  from  within. 

"Mr.  Thomas  Thome  Merriwether,  7-7-77!"  an 
nounced  the  intelligent-looking  footman,  with  a  very 
pronounced  English  accent. 

Mr.  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether  entered.  It  was 
a  nouveau-riche  library.  The  Circassian-walnut 
bookcases  and  center-table  were  over-elaborately 
carved,  and  the  hangings  of  rich  red  velvet  were 
over-elaborately  embroidered.  The  bronzes  on  the 
over-elaborate  mantel  looked  as  though  they  had 
been  placed  there  by  somebody  who  was  coming 
back  in  a  minute  to  take  them  away  again. 

Altogether  the  apartment  suggested  a  salesroom, 
and  there  was  a  note  of  incongruity  in  a  golden-oak 
filing-cabinet  of  the  Grand  Rapids  school. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  in  an  arm-chair,  with  his 
back  to  a  terrible  stained-glass  window,  sat  a  man 
of  about  forty.  He  had  a  calm,  remarkably  steady 
gaze,  with  a  sort  of  leisureliness  about  it  that  made 
you  think  of  a  drawling  voice.  Also,  an  assurance — • 
a  self-consciousness  of  knowledge — that  was  com 
pelling.  His  chin  was  firm  and  there  was  a  sugges 
tion  of  power  and  of  control  over  power  that  reminded 
Tom  of  a  very  competent  engineer  in  charge  of  a 
fifty-thousand-horse-power  machine. 

" Kindly  be  seated,  sir,"  said  the  man  in  a  tone 
that  subtly  suggested  weariness. 

205 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Tom  sat  down  and  looked  curiously  at  the  man, 
who  went  on : 

"Sir,  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you.  If  you  see  fit 
to  answer,  be  good  enough  to  answer  it  spontaneously 
and  in  good  faith.  Do  not,  I  beg  you,  in  turn,  ask  me 
questions — such  as,  for  example,  why  I  wish  to  know 
what  I  ask.  If  you  decide  not  to  answer  you  will 
leave  this  house  unharmed,  accompanied  by  our 
profound  regret  that  you  should  be  so  unintelligent 
at  your  life's  crisis."  The  man  looked  at  Tom  with 
a  meditative  expression,  then  nodded  to  himself 
almost  sorrowfully. 

Tom,  though  young,  was  a  Merriwether.  He  said, 
politely,  "Let  me  hear  the  question,  sir." 

He  himself  was  thinking  in  questions:  What  can 
the  question  be?  Who  is  this  man?  What  is  the 
game?  What  will  be  the  end  of  it  all ? 

"One  question,  sir,"  repeated  the  stranger. 

"I  am  listening,  sir,"  Tom  assured  him,  with  a 
quiet,  but  quite  impressive,  earnestness. 

11  Where  did  you  spend  your  vacation  at  the  end  of 
your  Freshman  year?19 

Tom  was  so  surprised,  and  even  disappointed, 
that  he  hesitated.  Then  he  answered: 

"In  Oleander  Point,  Long  Island,  in  the  cottage 
of  Dr.  Charles  W.  Bonner,  who  was  tutoring  me. 
I  had  a  couple  of  conditions  and  I  stayed  until  the 
third  of  September!" 

"Thank  you!  Thank  you!  That  is  all— unless, 
Mr.  Merriwether,  you  wish  to  do  me  and  yourself 
three  very  great  favors.  Three!" 

He  looked  at  Tom  with  a  sort  of  intelligent 
curiosity,  as  of  a  chemist  conducting  an  experi 
ment. 

206 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

"Let's  hear  what  they  are,"  said  young  Mr. 
Merriwether,  calmly. 

It  was  at  times  like  these  that  he  showed  whose 
son  he  was — alert,  his  imagination  active,  his  nerves 
under  control,  and  his  courage  steady  and  at  par. 
He  had,  moreover,  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
do  some  questioning  later  on. 

1 '  First  favor :  Concentrate  your  mind  on  how  you 
used  to  spend  your  bright,  sunshiny  days  in  Oleander 
Point  and  your  beautiful  moonlight  nights.  Recall 
the  pleasant  people  you  were  friendly  with  during 
those  happy  weeks.  Visualize  that  summer !  Make 
an  effort!  Think!" 

It  was  a  command,  and  Tom  Merriwether  found 
himself  thinking  of  that  summer.  He  closed  his 
eyes.  His  grip  on  the  revolver  in  his  pocket  relaxed. 
.  .  .  He  saw  his  friends.  Some  of  them  he  had  not 
seen  in  years.  Others  he  saw  almost  daily.  And 
somehow  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  girls  were 
pretty  and  kindly;  and  in  particular — well,  there 
were  in  particular  three.  But  the  affairs  had  come 
to  nothing. 

He  could  not  have  told  how  long  his  reverie  lasted 
— the  mind  traverses  long  stretches  of  time,  as  of 
space,  in  seconds. 

"Well?"  said  Tom  at  length. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  man,  with  the  matter-of- 
fact  gratitude  a  man  feels  toward  a  servant  for  some 
attention. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  black- velvet  bag, 
opened  it,  and  spread  on  the  table  before  Tom  Merri 
wether  a  dozen  pearls,  ranging  in  size  from  a  pea 
to  a  filbert.  They  were  all  of  a  beautiful  orient. 

"I  beg  you  to  select  one  of  these.  You  need  not 
207 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

use  it.  You  may  give  it  to  your  valet  if  you  wish, 
or  throw  it  out  of  the  window.  Only  accept  it  as  a 
souvenir  of  our  meeting.  That,  Mr.  Merriwether, 
would  be  favor  number  two." 

He  pointed  toward  the  pearls.  Tom  picked  one — 
pear-shaped,  white,  beautiful — and  put  it  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  The  man  swept  the  rest  into 
one  of  the  drawers  of  the  long  library  table. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,"  said  Tom.  He  was 
not  sure  the  pearls  were  not  genuine. 

"No;  please  don't,"  said  the  man.  There  was  a 
pause.  Presently  he  asked,  ' '  Do  you  know  anything 
about  pearls,  sir?" 

"I  am  no  expert,"  answered  Tom. 

"Characteristic.  You  Merriwethers  are  brave 
enough  to  be  truthful,  and  wise  enough  to  be  cau 
tious.  Have  you  any  opinions?" 

"I  think  they  are  beautiful,"  said  Tom. 

"They  are  more  than  'that.  They  represent,  Mr. 
Merriwether,  the  hope  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 
The  pearl  is  the  symbol  of  purity,  humility,  and 
innocence.  Do  you  know  the  legend  of  the  mild 
maid  of  God — Saint  Margaret  of  Antioch?" 

"No." 

"Margaret  is  from  Margarites — Greek  for  pearl. 
And  the  reason  why  faith —  But  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Men  who  live  alone  talk  too  much  when  they  are 
no  longer  alone.  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me.  Tell  me, 
Mr.  Merriwether,  did  you  ever  hear  of  Apollonius 
of  Tyana?" 

"Not  until  this  minute,"  answered  Tom. 

He  felt  almost  tempted  to  ask  whether  the  poor 
man  was  dead,  but  refrained  because  he  was  honest 
enough  to  admit  to  himself  that  the  question  would 

208 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

savor  of  bravado.  Tom  was  consumed  by  curiosity 
as  to  what  would  be  the  end  of  it  all.  To  think  of 
it — on  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York,  in  broad  daylight — 
all  this! 

How  money  was  to  be  made  out  of  him  he  could 
not  yet  see. 

"I  will  show  his  talisman  to  you — the  Dispeller 
of  Darkness!'*  The  man  clapped  his  hands  twice. 
At  the  summons  a  negro  walked  in.  He  was  dressed 
in  plain  black  and  wore  a  fez.  The  man  spoke  some 
guttural  words  and  the  negro  salaamed  and  left  the 
room.  Presently  he  returned  with  a  silver  tray  on 
which  were  seven  gold  or  gilt  candlesticks  and  can 
dles,  and  seven  gold  or  gilt  small  trays  or  plates, 
on  each  of  which  was  a  pastil. 

He  arranged  the  seven  candlesticks  in  some  de 
liberate  design,  carefully  measuring  the  distance  of 
each  from  the  other,  and  of  all  from  a  point  in  the 
center.  He  arranged  the  plates  and  pastils  about 
the  candlesticks.  Then  he  left  the  room,  to  return 
with  a  lighted  taper,  with  which  he  lit  the  seven  can 
dles  and  the  seven  pastils.  Tiny  spirals  of  fragrant 
smoke  rose  languidly  in  the  still  air. 

Again  the  negro  left  the  room  and  returned  with 
a  small  parcel  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  raw  silk  which 
he  gave  to  his  master.  He  then  went  away  for  good. 

The  man  began  to  mutter  something  to  himself  and 
very  carefully  took  off  the  silk  cover,  revealing  a 
wonderfully  carved  ivory  box.  He  opened  the  gold- 
hinged  lid  and  took  out  a  silver  case.  He  opened 
that  and  from  it  took  a  gold  box  elaborately  though 
crudely  chased.  He  opened  the  gold  box  and  within 
it,  on  a  little  white- velvet  pad,  was  a  cross  of  dull 
gold  curiously  engraved.  He  put  the  pad,  with  the 

209 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

cross  on  it,  in  the  middle  of  the  seven  lights.  On 
the  arms  of  the  cross  and  at  the  intersection  Tom 
saw  seven  wonderful  emeralds  remarkable  as  to  size, 
beautiful  as  to  color. 

"Look  at  it,  Mr.  Merriwether.  It  is  priceless. 
The  gems  alone  are  worth  a  king's  ransom.  If  you 
consider  it  merely  as  a  piece  of  ancient  art  there  is 
no  telling  what  a  man  like  Mr.  W.  H.  Garrettson 
would  not  give  for  it.  And  as  a  talisman,  with  its 
tried  wonder-working  powers,  there  is,  of  course,  not 
enough  money  in  all  the  world  to  pay  for  it." 

Tom  stretched  his  hand  toward  it. 

"Please!  Do  not  touch  it,  I  beg,"  said  the  man, 
in  a  voice  in  which  the  alarm  was  so  evident  that  Tom 
drew  his  hand  back  as  though  he  had  seen  a  cobra 
on  the  table.  "Not  yet!  Not  yet!"  said  the  man. 
"It  is  the  most  wonderful  object  in  existence.  It 
is  a  cross  that  antedates  Christ!" 

"Really?" 

"It  is  obviously  of  a  much  earlier  period  than  the 
Messiah.  Great  scholars  have  thought  it  a  legend, 
but  here  it  is  before  you.  It  belonged  to  Apollonius 
of  Tyana,  the  wonder-worker.  Philostratus,  who 
wrote  the  life  of  that  great  man,  does  not  mention 
this  talisman;  he  dared  not!  Apollonius,  who  to 
this  day  is  not  known  ever  to  have  died,  gave  it  to 
a  disciple,  who  gave  it  to  a  friend." 

Tom  looked  interested. 

"We  know  who  has  owned  it.  It  was  worn  by 
Arcadius  in  the  fifth  century.  The  Goths  took  it 
and  Alaric  gave  it  to  the  daughter  of  his  most 
trusted  captain,  who  commanded  his  citadel  of 
Carcassonne.  Clovis,  a  hundred  years  later,  secured 
it  at  the  sack  of  Toulouse.  We  have  records  of  its 

210 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

having  been  praised  by  Eligius,  the  famous  jeweler 
of  Dagobert,  in  the  seventh  century.  It  was  included 
in  the  famous  treasures  of  Charlemagne.  It  went  to 
Palestine  during  the  first  and  third  crusades — the 
first  time  carried  by  a  maid  who  loved  a  knight 
who  did  not  love  her.  She  went  as  his  squire,  he 
not  suspecting  her  sex  until  they  were  safely  back  in 
France,  when  he  married  her.  It  is  a  wonderful 
talisman.  The  emeralds  came  from  Mount  Zabara. 
They  have  the  power  to  drive  away  the  evil  spirits 
and  also  to  preserve  the  chastity  of  the  wearer. 
Moreover,  they  give  the  power  to  foretell  events. 
Apollonius  did — time  and  again.  This  is  historically 
true.  But  alone  he,  of  all  the  men  who  have  owned 
it,  never  had  a  love-affair;  hence  his  clairvoyance. 
I  have  bored  you.  Forgive  me!" 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  interested.  It  is  all  so — er — 
so—" 

"Incredible — yes!  There  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  believe  it.  It  is  of  no  consequence  whether 
you  think  me  a  lunatic  or  a  charlatan." 

He  said  this  with  a  cold  indifference  that  made 
Tom  look  incuriously  at  the  man,  whose  obvious 
desire  was  to  excite  curiosity.  Then  the  man  said, 
with  an  earnestness  that  in  spite  of  himself  impressed 
the  heir  of  the  Merriwether  railroads: 

"Mr.  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether,  classified  in 
our  books  as  7-7-77,  you  are  the  man  I  need  for 
this  job!" 

"Indeed?"  said  Tom,  politely. 

"Yes,  you  are."  Tom  bowed  his  head  and  looked 
resigned.  He  deliberately  intended  to  look  that 
way.  The  man  went  on,  "The  reason  I  am  so  sure 
is  because  I  know  both  who  and  what  you  are." 

211 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Ah,  you  know  me  pretty  well,  then."  Tom  could 
not  help  the  mild  sarcasm. 

"I  have  known  you,  young  man,  for  eighty -five 
years,  perhaps  longer."  The  man  spoke  calmly. 

"Indeed!"  said  Tom.     He  was  twenty-eight. 

"Yes.  On  top  of  that  cabinet  is  a  book.  After 
the  name  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether  you  will 
find  7-7-77.  In  the  cabinet — seventh  section,  sev 
enth  drawer,  card  Number  77 — you  will  find  clinical 
data,  physiological  and  psychological  details,  anec 
dotes,  and  so  on,  about  you  and  your  father,  E.  H. 
Merriwether,  and  your  mother,  Josephine  Thorne; 
your  grandfathers,  Lyman  Grant  Merriwether  and 
Thomas  Conkling  Thorne,  and  of  your  grand 
mothers,  Malvina  Sykes  Thorne  and  Lydia  Weston 
Merriwether.  Indeed  I  know  about  your  great 
grandfathers  and  three  of  your  great-great-grand 
parents  ;  but  the  data  in  their  case  are  of  little  value 
save  as  to  Ephraim  Merriwether,  who  in  seventeen 
sixty- three  killed  in  one  duel  three  army  officers  who 
laughed  at  his  twisted  nose,  bitten  and  disfigured 
for  life  by  a  wolf-cub  he  had  tried  to  tame.  Facts 
not  generally  known,  but,  for  all  that,  facts,  young 
Mr.  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether,  which  enable  me 
to  say  that  I  have  known  you  these  hundred  and  fifty 
years — if  there  is  anything  in  heredity,  environment, 
and  education!  And  now,  shall  I  tell  you  what 
favor  number  three  is?  " 

"If  you  please,"  said  Tom. 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  the  usual  suspicions 
as  to  a  merrymaking  game  could  not  be  justified 
in  this  particular  instance.  It  was  much  too  elabo 
rate  for  a  practical  joke.  He  did  not  know  how  the 
matter  would  end;  but  he  did  not  care.  In  New 

212 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

York,  on  Fifth  Avenue,  on  Tuesday  afternoon,  he 
was  having  what,  indeed,  was  an  experience! 

"I  beg  that  you  will  listen  attentively.  You  will 
take  the  Dispeller  of  Darkness  with  you.  Do  not 
open  the  gold  box  under  any  circumstances.  To 
night  go  to  7  East  Seventy-seventh  Street  so  as  to 
be  there  at  eight  o'clock  sharp.  The  door  will  not 
be  locked.  Don't  ring.  Walk  in.  Go  up  one  flight 
of  stairs  to  the  front  room — there  is  only  one.  You 
will  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  the  talis 
man  resting  on  the  palm  of  your  hand — thus!  Do 
nothing!  Say  nothing!  Wait  there!  The  talisman 
will  be  taken  from  you  by  a  person.  Do  not  try  to 
detain  her — this  person.  After  the  talisman  is  taken 
from  you  count  a  hundred — not  too  fast!  At  the 
end  of  your  count  leave  the  room  and  come  back 
here  and  tell  me  whether  you  have  carried  out  my 
instructions.  Now,  young  sir,  let  me  say  to  you 
that  you  don't  have  to  do  what  I  am  asking  you  to 
do.  There  is  no  compulsion  whatever.  There  is  no 
crime  in  contemplation — no  attempt  is  to  be  made 
against  your  life,  your  fortune,  or  your  morals. 
I  pledge  you  my  word,  sir!" 

The  man  looked  straight  into  Tom's  eyes.  Tom 
bowed  gravely.  This  man  must  be  crazy — and  yet 
he  certainly  was  not.  This  interested  Tom  by  per 
plexing  him  as  he  had  never  been  perplexed  in  his 
eight-and-twenty  years. 

"Mr.  Merriwether,  this  will  be  the  most  important 
step  of  your  life.  Its  bearing  on  your  happiness  is 
vital — also  on  the  success  of  your  great  father's  vast 
plans.  I  give  you  my  personal  word  that  this  is  so." 

There  was  a  pause.  Tom  had  nothing  to  say.  The 
man  went  on: 

213 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"If  you  care  to  take  reasonable  precautions  against 
attack  do  so.  Thus,  keep  the  revolver  you  now  have 
in  your  pocket — it  is  excellent.  Try  it  and  make 
certain.  You  may  write  a  detailed  account  of  what 
has  happened  and  leave  it  with  your  valet;  but 
mark  on  it  that  it  is  not  to  be  opened  unless  you 
fail  to  return  by  10  P.M.  Also  you  may,  if  you  wish, 
station  ten  private  detectives  across  the  way  from 
7  East  Seventy-seventh  Street,  and  instruct  them  to 
go  into  the  house  at  a  single  shout  from  you  or  at 
the  sound  of  a  shot.  Believe  me,  it  is  not  your  life 
that  is  in  danger,  sir!" 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Tom,  reassuringly. 

"Will  you  do  me  favor  number  three?"  The  man 
looked  at  Tom  with  a  steady,  unblinking,  earnest — 
one  might  even  say  honest — stare. 

Tom  considered.  His  mind  worked  not  only 
quickly,  but  Merriwether-fashion.  He  saw  all  the 
possibilities  of  danger,  but  he  saw  the  unknown — 
and  the  lust  of  adventure  won.  He  looked  the  man 
in  the  eyes  and  said,  quietly : 

"I  will." 

"Thank  you.  There  is  the  talisman.  Each  of 
the  seven  emeralds  is  flawless — the  only  seven  flaw 
less  emeralds  of  that  size  in  existence.  Two  of  them 
have  been  in  great  kings'  crowns,  and  the  center 
stone  was  in  the  tiara  of  seven  popes;  after  which, 
the  Great  Green  Prophecy  having  been  fulfilled,  it 
came  back  to  its  place  on  the  Cross.  Apollonius 
raised  people  from  the  dead,  according  to  eye 
witnesses.  The  pagans  tried  to  confute  the  believers 
in  Christian  miracles  by  bringing  forward  the  mir 
acles  of  the  sage  of  Tyana — and  they  did  not  know 
that  Apollonius  wrought  marvels  by  the  Sign  of  the 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

Son  of  Man — the  Cross!  This  cross!  I  pray  that 
you  will  be  careful  with  it.  Show  it  to  nobody. 
You  have  understood  your  instructions?" 

Tom  repeated  them. 

"Precisely!  I  did  not  make  a  mistake,  you  see. 
In  spite  of  your  father's  millions  you  will  be  what 
your  destiny  wills.  Young  man,  good  luck  to  you!" 

The  man  rose  and  walked  toward  the  door.  Tom 
Merriwether  followed  him  and  was  politely  bowed 
out  of  the  room.  From  there  to  the  street  entrance 
the  four  athletic  footmen,  with  the  over-intelligent 
faces,  took  him  in  tow,  one  at  a  time.  And  it  was 
not  until  he  was  out  on  the  Avenue,  headed  north, 
walking  toward  his  own  house,  that  Thomas  Thorne 
Merriwether,  clean-living  miltimillionaire  idler,  shook 
himself,  as  if  to  scatter  the  remnants  of  a  dream, 
felt  the  butt  of  the  revolver,  hefted  the  silk-wrapped 
parcel  in  which  was  the  talisman,  and  said,  aloud,  so 
that  a  couple  of  pedestrians  turned  and  smiled 
sympathetically  at  the  young  man,  who  must  be  in 
love,  since  he  talked  to  himself: 

"What  in  blazes  is  it  all  about?" 


II 

His  perplexing  experience  developed  so  insistent 
a  curiosity  in  Tom  that  he  grew  irritable  even  as  he 
walked.  That  some  sort  of  a  game  was  being  worked 
he  had  no  doubt;  but  the  fact  that  he  could  see  no 
object  or  motive  increased  his  wrath.  He  discarded 
all  suggestion  of  violence,  though  he  was  bound  to 
admit  now  that  anybody  could  be  kidnapped  in 
New  York  in  broad  daylight. 

He  decided  to  begin  by  verifying  those  allusions 
215 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

and  references  that  he  remembered.  He  walked 
down  the  Avenue  to  the  Public  Library  and  there  he 
read  what  he  could  of  Apollonius  and  of  Eligius,  the 
marvelous  goldsmith  who  afterward  became  Saint 
Eloi.  The  helpful  and  polite  library  assistant  at 
length  suggested  a  visit  to  Dr.  Lentz,  the  gem  ex 
pert  of  Goffony  &  Company,  a  man  of  vast  erudition 
as  well  as  a  practical  jeweler.  Tom  promptly  betook 
himself  to  the  famous  jewel-shop. 

They  knew  the  heir  of  the  seventy-five  Merri- 
wether  millions,  and  impressively  ushered  him  into 
Dr.  Lentz's  office.  Tom  shook  hands  with  the  fat 
little  man,  whose  wonderfully  shaped  head  had  on 
it  no  hair  worth  speaking  of,  and  handed  him  the 
pearl  he  had  picked  out  from  the  dozen  the  man  in 
777  Fifth  Avenue  had  placed  before  him.  Dr. 
Lentz  looked  at  it,  weighed  it  in  his  hand,  and,  with 
out  waiting  to  be  asked  any  questions,  answered 
what  nearly  everybody  always  asked  him: 

''Persian  Gulf.  About  fifteen  grains — perhaps  a 
little  more.  We  sell  some  like  it  for  about  thirty- 
five  hundred  dollars." 

"Thanks,"  said  Tom,  and  put  the  pearl  in  his 
pocket. 

If  it  was  a  joke  it  was  expensive.  If  not,  the 
other  pearls  the  man  had  shown,  nearly  all  of  which 
were  larger,  must  have  been  worth  from  fifty  thou 
sand  to  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Such  is  the 
power  of  money  that  this  young  man,  destined  to  be 
one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  world  and,  moreover, 
one  who  did  not  particularly  think  about  money, 
was  nevertheless  impressed  by  the  stranger's  careless 
handling  of  the  valuable  pearls.  He  concluded 
subconsciously  that  the  talisman  was  even  more 

216 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

valuable.    He  took  the  package  from  his  coat  pocket 
and  gave  it  to  Dr.  Lentz. 

''Raw  silk — Syrian,"  murmured  the  gem  expert, 
and  undid  the  covering. 

"Ha!  Italo-Byzantine.  The  Raising  of  Tabitha. 
No!  no!"  He  glared  at  young  Merriwether,  who  re 
treated  a  step.  "Very  rare!  It's  the  Raising  of 
Jairus's  Daughter.  Same  workmanship  in  similar 
specimen  in  the  Lipsanoteca,  Museo  Civico,  Brescia. 
If  so,  not  later  than  fourth  century.  Very  rare! 
H'm!" 

"Is  it?"  said  Tom.  "I  don't  know  much  about 
ivories." 

"No?    Read  Molinier!    Graven!" 

"Thank  you.    I' will,  Dr.  Lentz." 

Dr.  Lentz  opened  the  little  ivory  box  and  pulled 
out  the  silver  case. 

"Ha!  H'm!  Not  so  rare!  Asia  Minor.  Probably 
eighth  century." 

"B.  C?" 

"Certainly  not.    Key?    H'm!" 

"Haven't  got  it  here,"  evaded  Tom. 

The  little  savant  turned  to  his  secretary  and  said, 
"Bring  drawer  marked  forty-four,  inner  compart 
ment,  antique-gem  safe." 

He  was  examining  the  little  box,  nodding  his  head, 
and  muttering,  "  H'm !  H'm !"  Tom  felt  the  ground 
slipping  away  from  under  the  feet  of  his  suspicions 
even  while  his  perplexity  waxed  monumental.  And 
with  it  came  the  satisfaction  of  a  man  convincing 
himself  that  he  is  neither  wasting  his  time  nor  making 
himself  ridiculous. 

The  clerk  returned  with  a  little  drawer  in  which 
Tom  saw  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  keys. 
15  217 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

" Replicas!  Originals  in  museums  of  world!" 
explained  Lentz.  "H'm!"  He  turned  the  keys  over 
with  a  selective  forefinger.  "It's  that  one  or  this 
one."  And  he  picked  out  two.  "Probably  this! 
Damascus!  Eighth  century.  Byzantine  influence 
still  strong.  See  that?  And  that?  And  that?  H'm!" 
He  inserted  the  little  key  and  opened  the  casket. 
He  saw  the  gold  box  within.  "Ha!  H'm!  Thracian! 
How  did  you  get  this?  H'm!"  He  raised  his  head, 
looked  at  Tom  fiercely,  and  then  said,  coldly,  "Mr. 
Merriwether,  this  has  been  stolen  from  the  British 
Museum!" 

It  beautifully  complicated  matters.  Tom's  heart 
beat  faster  with  interest. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked,  being  a  Merriwether. 

"Wait!  H'm!"  He  lifted  it  out  and  examined  the 
back.  "No!  No!  Thracian!  Of  the  Bisaltae! 
Time  of  Lysimachus !  But —  Well!  Aryan  symbol 
ism!  Possibly  taken  to  India  by  one  of  Alexander's 
captains — perhaps  Lysimachus  himself !  And —  Oh ! 
Oh,  early  .Christians!  Oh,  early  damned  fools! 
See  that  ?  Smoothed  away  to  put  that —  Oh,  beasts ! 
Heritics  in  art !  Curious !  Do  you  know  the  incanta 
tion  to  use  before  opening?" 

"It  was  in  Greek,  and — " 

"Of  course!" 

"Yes.  He  said  this  had  belonged  to  Apollonius  of 
Tyana." 

"How  much  does  he  ask?" 

"It  is  not  for  sale." 

"Inside  is  a  pentagram?" 

"No;  a  cross,  with  seven  emeralds  as  big  as  that, 
all  flawless." 

"There  are  only  two  such  emeralds  in  the  world 

218 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

without  flaws  and  we  have  one  of  them.  The  other 
is  owned  by  the  Archbishop  of  Bogota,  Colombia.'1 

"He  said  these  were  flawless  and  that  he  has 
proofs.  He  says  Eligius  studied  this — " 

"Mr.  Merriwether,  you  have  on  your  hands  either 
a  very  dangerous  impostor  or  else —  H'm !  He  must 
be  an  impostor!  How  much  does  he  want?" 

"It  is  not  for  sale!" 

"H'm!  Worse  and  worse!  If  I  can  be  of  use 
let  me  know !  They'll  fool  us  all !  All !  Good  day !" 
And  Dr.  Lentz  walked  away,  leaving  Tom  more 
puzzled  than  ever,  but  now  determined  to  go  to 
7  East  Seventy-seventh  Street  at  eight  o'clock  that 
night. 

He  went  home  and  wrote  an  account  of  what  had 
happened,  placed  it  in  an  envelope,  sealed  the 
envelope,  and  gave  it  to  his  valet. 

"If  you  don't  hear  from  me  by  ten  o'clock  to 
night  give  this  to  my  father;  but  don't  give  it  to 
him  one  minute  before  ten.  And  you  stay  in  until 
you  hear  from  me." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

He  then  went  to  the  club,  ordered  an  early  dinner 
for  two,  and  invited  his  friend  Huntington  Andrews 
to  go  with  him.  He  did  not  go  into  details. 

Shortly  before  eight  he  stationed  Andrews  across 
the  way  from  7  East  Seventy-seventh  Street  and  told 
him: 

"If  I  am  not  back  here  at  eight-fifteen  come  in 
after  me.  If  you  don't  find  me  go  to  my  house  and 
wait  until  ten.  My  man  has  instructions.  See  my 
father." 

Tom  was  Merriwether  enough  to  have  in  readiness 
not  only  an  extra  revolver  to  give  to  his  friend,  but 

219 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

also  a  heavy  cane  and  an  electric  torch.  Also  he 
drove  Huntington  to  within  a  hair's-breadth  of 
death  by  unsatisfied  curiosity. 

At  one  minute  before  eight  Mr.  Thomas  Thorne 
Merriwether  went  into  the  house  of  mystery,  realiz 
ing  for  the  first  time  how  often  the  mystic  number 
seven  recurred.  The  Bible  teemed  with  allusions 
to  the  seven  stars,  the  seven  seals,  the  seven-branched 
candlestick,  the  seven  mortal  sins.  The  Greeks  had 
Seven  Wise  Men  and  Seven  Sleepers,  and  the 
Pythagoreans  saw  magic  in  all  the  heptamerides. 
And  there  were  seven  notes  of  music  and  seven 
primary  colors,  and  seven  hills  in  the  Eternal  City. 
Also,  it  had  never  before  occurred  to  him  that  he  was 
born  on  the  seventh  day  of  the  seventh  month. 
And  now  it  had  its  effect. 

He  tried  the  door.  It  opened  when  he  turned 
the  knob.  The  hall  was  dark,  but  he  could  descry 
the  staircase.  He  grasped  his  revolver  firmly  and 
entered. 

There  was  a  smell  of  undusted  floors  and  unaired 
walls.  The  darkness  thickened  with  each  step  as  he 
climbed,  compelling  him  to  grope.  And  because  he 
groped  there  came  to  him  that  fear  which  always 
comes  with  uncertainty.  It  permeated  his  soul  and 
was  intensified,  without  becoming  more  concrete, 
by  reason  of  the  ghostly  emptiness  peculiar  to  all 
unoccupied  houses.  The  absence  of  furniture  served 
merely  to  fill  the  corners  with  shadows  that  bred 
uneasiness.  People  had  been  there;  people  no 
longer  were!  The  house  was  empty  of  humanity, 
but  full  of  other  beings — impalpable  suspects  that 
made  the  flesh  creep!  It  was  like  death — unseen, 
but  felt  with  the  senses  of  the  soul. 

220 


CHEAP   AT   A   MILLION 

There  was  no  place,  decided  Tom,  so  fit  to  murder 
people  in  as  an  empty  house.  His  adventure  now 
took  on  an  aspect  of  reckless  folly.  But  though  he 
felt  in  this  ghostly  house  what  might  be  called  the 
ghost  of  fear,  he  also  felt  the  impelling  force  of  an 
intelligent  curiosity.  In  this  young  man's  soul  was 
a  love  of  adventure,  a  gambler's  philosophy,  a  re 
serve  force  of  cold  intelligence  and  warm  imagination 
such  as  is  found  in  the  great  explorers,  the  great 
chemists,  and  the  great  bucaneers  of  dollars. 

That  was  why  in  the  year  of  grace  1913  Tom 
Merriwether  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  second-story 
front  room  of  a  house  situated  in  a  very  good  street, 
only  three  doors  from  Fifth  Avenue,  with  his  left 
hand  outstretched,  and  on  the  open  palm  of  it  a  cross 
with  a  Greek  name  that  meant  Dispeller  of  Darkness 
— in  a  darkness  that  could  not  be  dispelled.  His 
right  hand  grasped  the  butt  of  an  automatic  .45 
loaded  with  elephant-stopping  bullets — but  of  what 
avail  was  that  against  a  knock  in  the  head  from 
behind? 

Listening  for  soft  footsteps,  he  seemed  to  hear 
them  time  and  again — and  time  and  again  not  to 
hear  them!  People  nowadays,  he  finally  decided, 
do  not  want  to  take  other  people's  lives — only  their 
money.  Whereupon  he  once  more  grew  calm — and 
intensely  curious!  He  had  not  one  cent  of  money 
on  his  person.  He  had  left  it  at  home  intentionally. 

Presently  he  thought  he  heard  sounds — faint  mu 
sical  murmurings  in  the  air  about  him,  low  wailings 
of  violins,  scarcely  more  than  ^Eolian  harpings,  and 
pipings  as  of  tiny  flutes — almost  indistinguishable. 
Then  a  delicate  swish-swish,  as  of  silken  garments. 
Also,  there  came  to  him  a  subtle  fragrance  that 

221 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

turned  first  into  an  odorous  sigh  and  then  into  a 
summer  breath  of  sweet  peas;  and  he  imagined — he 
must  have  imagined — hearing,  "I  do  love  you!"  ah, 
so  softly ! 

He  smelled  now  the  odor  of  sweet  peas,  which 
stirred  sleeping  memories  without  fully  awakening 
them,  as  all  flower  odors  do  by  what  the  psychologists 
call  association.  He  heard,  "I  do  love  you!" — and 
then  the  Dispeller  of  Darkness  was  taken  from  his 
outstretched  hand. 

He  stood  there,  his  muscles  tense,  braced  for  a 
shock,  ready  for  a  life  struggle,  perhaps  half  a  minute 
before  the  sound  of  footsteps  retreating  in  the  hall 
outside  recalled  to  him  his  instructions.  He  vehe 
mently  desired  to  follow  and  see  who  it  was  that  had 
taken  the  Dispeller  of  Darkness;  but  he  had  pledged 
his  word  not  to.  He  hesitated. 

The  odor  of  sweet  peas  was  flooding  him  as  with 
waves.  And  he  heard,  "I  do  love  you!" — heard  it 
again  and  again  with  the  inner  ear  of  his  soul,  the 
listener  of  delights.  He  thrilled  at  the  thought  of 
being  loved.  It  made  him  incredibly  happy.  He 
felt  unbelievably  young! 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not 
counted  a  hundred  as  he  had  promised,  though  he 
must  have  spent  more  than  a  minute  wool-gathering. 
He  counted  a  hundred  as  fast  as  he  could  and  then 
hastened  from  the  room.  It  was  plain  that  Tom 
Merriwether  was  already  doing  incredible  things  or, 
at  least,  failing  to  do  the  obvious.  Great  is  the 
power  of  suggestion  on  an  imaginative  mind! 

He  flashed  his  electric  torch.  He  was  in  a  bare 
room  with  a  dusty  hardwood  floor,  ivory- tinted  wain 
scoting,  and  a  Colonial  mantel.  The  hall  was  empty. 

222 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

He  walked  down  the  stairs,  his  steps  raising  disquiet 
ing  echoes  and  creepy  creakings. 

Mindful  of  his  waiting  friend  outside,  he  quickly 
walked  out  of  the  gloom  into  which  he  had  carried 
the  Dispeller  of  Darkness  of  Apollonius  of  Tyana, 
the  cross  of  the  seven  emeralds.  Huntington  An 
drews  saw  him  coming  and  crossed  over  to  meet  him. 

"How  did  you  make  out,  Tom?" 

"I'm  a  damned  fool,  Huntington;  and  so  are  you! 
And  so  is  everybody!" 

"Right-O!"  agreed  Andrews,  who  was  inveterately 
amiable  and,  moreover,  loved  Tom. 

"It's  the  most  diabolical — "     Tom  paused. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  agreed  Huntington  Andrews,  so  ob 
viously  anxious  to  dispel  his  friend's  ill  temper  that 
Tom  laughed  and  said,  cheerfully: 

"Come  on,  me  brave  bucko!"  And  together  they 
walked  to  the  corner  and  then  down  the  Avenue 
to  777. 

"Huntington,  you  wait  here;  and  if  I  am  not  back 
by  nine-forty-five  go  to  my  house.  At  ten  o'clock 
have  my  valet  deliver  the  letter  I  gave  him  for  my 
father.  You  can  be  of  help  to  the  governor  if  you 
will." 

And  Huntington  Andrews  asked  no  questions — he 
was  a  friend. 

Tom  rang  the  bell  of  777.  The  door  opened. 
One  of  the  four  over-intelligent-looking  footmen 
stepped  to  one  side  respectfully. 

"Is  your — "  began  Tom. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Merriwether,"  answered  the  man,  with 
a  deference  such  as  only  royalty  elicits. 

He  then  delivered  Tom  to  footman  number  two, 
who  in  turn  escorted  him  as  far  as  number  three; 

223 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

then  number  four  led  him  to  the  door  of  the  master's 
library.  The  footman  knocked,  opened  the  door  and 
announced,  with  a  curious  solemnity: 

"Mr.  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether,  7-7-77." 

The  strange  man  was  there  in  his  arm-chair,  his 
back  to  the  window.  The  room  was  lit  by  candles. 
The  man  rose  and  said,  respectfully: 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Merriwether." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Tom,  amiably. 

The  man  bowed  his  head  and  looked  at  Tom 
meditatively.  Tom  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"May  I  ask  what — "  Tom  began,  but  was  checked 
by  the  other,  who  held  up  his  right  hand  with  the 
gesture  of  a  traffic  policeman  and  said,  slowly: 

"A  message  in  the  dark!  You  carried  one  to 
another  soul,  who  waited  for  it.  And  that  other  soul 
is  taking  one  to  you.  Some  day  you  will  meet  her. 
You  will  marry  her.  There  is  no  doubt  whatever  of 
that.  None!  Ask  me  no  questions,  Mr.  Merri 
wether.  I  ask  nothing  of  you — no  money,  no  time, 
no  services,  no  work,  no  favors — nothing !  Your  fate 
is  not  in  my  hands.  It  never  was !  You  will  follow 
your  destiny.  It  will  take  you  by  the  hand  and  lead 
you  to  her!" 

"That  is  very  nice  of  destiny." 

"My  young  friend,  you  are  very  rich,  very  power 
ful.  You  can  do  everything.  You  fear  nothing. 
This  is  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  thirteen. 
But  I  tell  you  this:  the  woman  who  will  be  your 
wife  in  this  world  and  throughout  eternity  has  re 
ceived  your  message.  It  was  ordained  from  the 
beginning.  You  have  not  seen  her;  you  have  not 
heard  her;  you  have  not  touched  her.  And  yet  you 
will  know  her  when  you  see  her  and  when  you  hear 

224 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

her  and  when  you  feel  her.  Into  the  darkness  you 
went.  Out  of  the  darkness  she  will  come.  Nothing 
you  can  do  can  change  it.  Improve  your  hours  by 
thinking  of  her.  Think  of  the  love  you  have  to  give 
her!  Think  of  it  constantly !  Of  your  love!  Yours! 
Of  hers  you  cannot  guess.  The  love  you  will  give 
will  make  her  your  mate!  Your  love!  And  so, 
Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether,  think  of  the  One 
Woman!" 

"I  think—" 

"I  know!  Amusement,  sneers,  skepticism,  anger 
— all  are  one  to  me.  I  ask  nothing,  expect  nothing, 
desire  nothing,  and  fear  nothing  from  you,  young  sir. 
A  queer  experience  this — eh?  An  unexplained  and 
apparently  unconcluded  little  game?  A  plot  foiled 
by  your  cleverness — what?  A  joke?  A  piece  of 
lunacy?  Call  it  anything  you  wish.  Again  I  thank 
you.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Merriwether." 

And  Tom  was  politely  ushered  from  the  room  by 
the  strange  man  and  from  the  house  by  the  four  over- 
intelligent  footmen. 


in 

Next  day  Tom  Merriwether  found  himself  unable 
to  think  of  anything  but  the  mystery  of  the  fateful 
Tuesday.  He  felt  baffled.  His  curiosity  had  been 
repulsed  at  every  step.  In  their  definite  incompre 
hensibility  all  the  incidents  that  he  so  vividly  recalled 
took  on  an  irritating  quality  that  made  him  a  morose 
and  uncomfortable  companion.  Huntington  An 
drews  noticed  it  at  luncheon;  and  so  admirable  was 
the  quality  of  his  amiability  that  after  the  coffee  he 
said: 

225 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Tom,  I've  got  important  business  to  attend  to 
to-day,  and  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  be  off  now.  Of 
course  if  you  think  I  can  help  you  in  any  way  all 
you  have  to  do  is  to  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"Huntington,  you  are  the  best  friend  in  the  world. 
I've  been  thinking — " 

Tom  paused  and  stared  into  vacancy.  He  was 
trying  to  recall  whether  the  man  at  7  7  7  Fifth  Avenue 
had  a  criminal  look  about  the  eyes.  Huntington 
Andrews  rose  very  quietly  and  walked  away.  He 
knew  his  friend  wished  to  think — alone. 

Lost  in  his  exasperating  speculations,  Tom  finally 
ceased  thinking  of  the  man  and  began  to  think  of  the 
girl.  Was  the  game  to  rouse  his  interest  in  an  un 
known,  later  to  be  introduced  to  him?  Was  the 
scheme  one  that  involved  an  adventuress?  Why 
all  the  claptrap?  And  why  had  his  thoughts,  in 
spite  of  himself,  dwelt  so  persistently  on  love  and 
somebody  to  love?  Why  had  the  springtime — 
since  the  night  before — come  to  mean  a  time  for 
loving?  Why  had  he  begun  to  see,  in  flashes,  tanta 
lizing  glimpses  of  rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes? 
Why  had  he  permitted  his  own  mind  to  be  influenced 
by  the  strange  man's  remarks,  so  that  Tom  Merri- 
wether  was  indeed  thinking — if  he  would  be  honest 
with  himself — of  marriage?  Was  his  affinity  on  her 
way  to  him  at  this  very  moment,  as  the  man  said? 
He  began  to  hope  she  was. 

He  dined  at  home  and  was  so  preoccupied  at  the 
table  that  even  his  father  noticed  it. 

"What's  up,  Tom?" 

"What?  Oh!  Nothing,  dad!  I  was  just  think 
ing." 

"Terrible  thing,  my  boy — thinking  at  meal-time," 
226 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

said  E.  H.  Merri wether,  with  a  self-conscious  look  of 
badinage. 

"Yes,  it  is.     I'll  quit." 

"Is  it  anything  about  which  you  need  advice — 
or  help,  my  boy?"  said  the  great  little  railroad  dynast, 
very  carelessly. 

His  eyes  never  left  his  son's  face;  but  when  Tom 
raised  his  gaze  to  meet  his  father's  the  elder  Merri- 
wether  showed  no  interest.  Tom  knew  his  father 
and  felt  the  paternal  love  that  insisted  on  concealing 
itself  as  though  it  were  a  weakness. 

"No,  indeed.  There  is  nothing  the  matter — 
really.  I  was  thinking  I'd  like  to  do  a  man's  work. 
I  guess  you'd  better  let  me  go  with  you  on  your  next 
tour  of  inspection." 

The  face  of  the  czar  of  the  Southwestern  & 
Pacific  lighted  up. 

"Will  you?"  he  said,  with  an  eagerness  that  made 
his  voice  almost  tremble. 

"Yes." 

And  that  evening  E.  H.  Merri  wether  delivered  a 
long  lecture  on  railroad  strategy  and  railroad  finan 
cing  to  his  son,  which  brought  them  very  close  to  each 
other. 

On  the  next  day,  however,  all  thoughts  of  being 
his  great  father's  successor  were  subordinated  to  the 
feeling  that,  if  Mr.  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether 
had  to  be  the  successor  of  a  railroad  man,  he  should 
himself  take  steps  to  provide  his  own  successors. 
Feeling  that  he  was  his  father's  son  made  him  think 
of  paternity.  And  that  made  him  think  of  the 
message  he  had  delivered  in  the  dark  and  of  the 
message  the  man  had  said  would  some  day  come  to 
Tom  Merriwether.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and 

227 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

thought  he  smelled  sweet  peas.  And  that  somehow 
made  him  think  of  the  girl  he  should  marry.  Try 
as  he  might,  he  could  not  quite  see  her  face.  He 
thought  he  kissed  her,  and  he  inhaled  the  fragrance 
of  sweet  peas.  Her  complexion  was  beautiful.  No 
more! 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Tom  decided 
that  he  was  wasting  too  much  time  in  thinking  of 
the  possible  meaning  of  his  queer  experience,  and 
also  that  it  was  of  little  use  trying  not  to  think 
about  it.  Therefore  he  would  try  to  put  an  end  to 
the  perplexity. 

He  went  to  777  Fifth  Avenue  and  rang  the  bell. 
A  footman  opened  the  door  and  stared  at  him 
icily.  Tom  perceived  he  was  not  one  of  the  men 
whose  faces  looked  too  intelligent  for  footmen. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr. — er — your  master." 

"Does  he  expect  you,  sir?"  The  tone  was  not  as 
respectful  as  footmen  in  Fifth  Avenue  houses  used 
in  speaking  to  the  heir  of  the  Merriwether  millions. 

"No;  but  he  knows  me." 

"Who  knows  you,  sir?" 

"Your  master." 

"Could  you  tell  me  his  name,  sir?" 

"No;  but  I  can  tell  you  mine." 

"He's  not  at  home,  sir." 

"I'm  Mr.  Merriwether.  Say  I  wish  to  speak  to 
him  a  moment." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir.    He's  not  in." 

The  footman  was  so  unimpressed  by  the  name  of 
Merriwether  that  Tom  experienced  a  new  sensation, 
one  which  made  him  less  sure  of  his  own  powers. 
He  took  out  a  card  and  a  bank-note  and  held  them 
out  toward  the  man. 

228 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

"I  am  anxious  to  see  him." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  can't  take  it,  sir,"  said  the  footman, 
with  such  melancholy  sincerity  that  Tom  smiled  at 
the  torture  of  the  cockney  soul. 

Then  he  ceased  to  smile.  The  master  of  this 
mysterious  house  had  compelled  even  the  footmen 
to  obey  him ! 

"But  if  you  will  call  again  in  an  hour,  sir,  I  think 
perhaps,  sir — " 

"Thank  you.    Take  it  anyhow." 

He  again  held  out  the  bank-note.  The  man  saw 
it  was  for  twenty  dollars,  and  almost  turned  green. 

"I — I  d-daresent,  sir!"  he  whimpered,  and  closed 
his  eyes  with  the  expression  of  an  anchoret  resolved 
not  to  see  the  beautiful  temptress. 

Tom  left  him,  walked  across  the  Avenue  to  the 
Park,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench.  He  settled  down  to 
think  calmly  over  the  mysterious  affair,  and  looked 
about  him. 

The  grass  in  the  turf  places  had  taken  on  a  definite 
green,  as  though  it  were  May.  The  trees  were  not 
yet  in  leaf,  making  the  grass-greenness  seem  a  trifle 
premature,  but  Tom  noticed  that  the  buds  on  the 
trees  and  shrubs  were  bursting;  there  were  little 
feathery  tips  of  tender  red  and  pale  green — tiny  wings 
about  to  flutter  upward  because  the  sun  and  the  sky 
beckoned  to  them  to  go  where  it  was  bright  and 
warm.  The  sky  was  of  a  spotless  turquoise,  as 
though  the  spring  cleaning  up  there  had  been  thor 
ough.  The  clouds  were  of  silver  freshly  burnished 
for  the  occasion.  The  air  was  alive,  laden  with 
subtle  thrills;  it  throbbed  invisibly,  as  though  the 
light  were  life,  and  life  were  love.  He  saw  hundreds 
of  sparrows,  and  they  all  twittered ;  and  all  the  twit- 

229 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

terings  were  very,  very  shrill,  and  yet  very,  very 
musical.  And  also  they  twittered  in  couples  that 
hopped  and  darted  and  aerially  zigzagged — always 
together  and  always  twittering! 

A  policeman  stopped  and  said  something  to  a 
nurse-maid.  The  nurse-maid  said  something  to  the 
policeman.  He  was  young  and  she  was  pretty. 
Then  the  policeman  said  nothing  to  the  nurse-maid, 
and  the  nurse-maid  said  nothing  to  the  policeman. 
Then  two  faces  turned  red.  Then  one  face  nodded 
yes.  Then  the  other  face  walked  away,  swinging  a 
club;  and — by  all  that  was  marvelous! — swinging 
the  club  in  time  to  the  tune  the  sparrows  were  twit 
tering — in  couples — the  same  tune,  as  though  the 
club-swinger's  soul  were  whistling  it ! 

Tom  smiled  uncertainly  —  he  wanted  to  give 
money,  lots  of  it,  to  the  policeman  and  to  the  nurse 
maid;  and  he  knew  it  was  impossible — it  was  too 
obviously  the  intelligent  thing  to  do!  So,  instead, 
he  drew  a  deep  breath. 

Instantly  there  came  to  him  not  the  odor  of  spring 
and  of  green  things  growing,  but  of  sweet  peas  and 
summer  winds,  and  changing,  evanescent  faces, 
pink-and-white  as  flowers,  with  flower-odor  associa 
tions  and  eyes  full  of  glints  and  brightnesses  that 
recalled  dewdrops  and  sunlight  and  stars.  And 
these  glittering  points  shifted  in  tune  to  the  twitter 
ing  of  birds  and  the  swinging  of  Park  policemen's 
clubs. 

Love  was  in  the  air!  Love  was  making  Tom  Mer- 
riwether  impatient,  as  that  love  which  is  the  love  of 
loving  always  makes  the  mateless  man. 

He  could  no  longer  sit  calmly.  He  could  not  sit 
at  all.  He  craved  to  do  something,  to  do  anything, 

230 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

so  long  as  it  was  motion.  Therefore  he  walked 
briskly  northward.  At  Ninetieth  Street  he  halted 
abruptly.  He  had  begun  to  walk  mechanically  and 
he  could  think  of  what  he  did  not  wish  to  think.  So 
he  shook  himself  free  from  the  spell  and  walked  back. 

An  hour  had  passed.  He  again  rang  the  bell  of 
777.  The  same  footman  opened  the  door. 

"Is  he  in?"  asked  Tom,  impatiently. 

"Yes,  sir — he  is,  sir.  I  told  him  the  moment  he 
came  in,  sir."  He  looked  as  uncomfortable  as  a  life 
long  habit  of  impassivity  permitted. 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Tom. 

"He  said:  'How  much  did  he  offer  to  give  you 
when  you  said  I  wasn't  at  home?'  Yes,  sir.  That's 
what  he  asked  me." 

"And  you  said?" 

"I  said  it  was  a  yellowback,  sir.  That's  all  I 
could  see.  I  said  I  wouldn't  take  it,  and  he  said  I 
might  just  as  well  have  taken  it.  Thank  you,  sir! 
This  way,  sir." 

The  footman  led  the  way  to  the  door  in  the  rear, 
rapped,  and  in  the  sonorous,  triumphant  voice  that 
a  twenty-dollar  tip  will  give  to  any  menial  he  an 
nounced  : 

"Mr.  Merriwether!" 

The  same  man  was  in  the  same  chair  in  the  same 
room,  with  his  back  to  the  stained-glass  window. 
Tom  recalled  all  the  incidents  of  his  previous  visits — 
recalled  every  detail.  Also  the  old  question:  What 
is  the  game  ?  Also  the  new  question :  Where  is  she  ? 

The  man  rose  and  bowed.  It  was  the  bow  of  a 
social  equal,  Tom  saw. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Merriwether.  Won't  you 
be  seated,  sir?"  And  he  motioned  him  to  a  chair. 

231 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Thank  you." 

"How  can  I  serve  you?" 

"Who  is  the  woman?"  said  Tom,  abruptly. 

"Your  fate!"  answered  the  man. 

"Her  name?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 

"Her  address?" 

"I  don't  know  it." 

"What  is  your  game?" 

"I  have  money  enough  for  my  whims  and  time 
enough  to  gratify  my  desire  to  help  you.  Eugenics 
is  my  hobby.  I  recognize  that  I  cannot  fight  against 
the  decree  of  destiny." 

"I  am  tired  of  all  this  humbug." 

"I  ask  nothing  of  you  now.  You  can  go  or  you 
can  come.  You  can  go  to  India  or  to  Patagonia — 
or  even  farther.  You  may  send  'detectives  and  law 
yers,  or  even  thugs,  to  me.  You  may  cease  your 
search  for  her — if  you  can!" 

"You  have  roused  my  curiosity — " 

"That  is  a  sign  of  intelligence." 

"I  tell  you  now  that  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  what 
you  say." 

"Free  country,  young  man." 

"I've  had  enough  of  this  nonsense — " 

"Though  I  am  always  glad  to  see  you,  young  sir, 
and  would  not  wound  your  feelings  for  worlds" — 
the  man's  voice  was  very  polite,  but  also  very  cold — 
"I  might  be  forgiven  for  observing  that  I  did  not 
ask  you  to  call." 

"I'll  give  you  a  thousand  dollars — " 

The  man  stopped  him  with  a  deprecatory  wave  of 
the  hand. 

"One  of  the  pearls  I  offered  you,  Mr.  Merriwether, 

232 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

is  valued  at  ten  thousand  dollars.  You  did  not 
select  that  one;  but  I'll  exchange  the  one  you  took 
for  it  —  now  if  you  wish." 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  —  "  Tom  paused,  and 
the  man  cut  in  : 

1  '  Do  you  wish  to  see  her  from  a  safe  distance?  Or 
do  you  wish  to  talk  to  her  without  seeing  her  ?  Or  —  " 

"To  see  her  and  talk  to  her!" 

"Wait!" 

The  man  intently  regarded  the  tip  of  Tom's  left 
shoe  for  fully  five  minutes.  Then  he  raised  his  head 
and  clapped  his  hands  twice.  The  black  man 
servant  with  the  fez  appeared. 

The  man  said  something  in  Arabic  —  at  least  it 
sounded  so  to  Tom.  The  black  answered.  The 
man  spoke  again.  The  black  replied: 

The  man  said  what  sounded  to  Tom  like,  "Ay 


The  negro  answered,  "Al-sabi!  Al-sdbi  wal 
Saboun" 

The  man  waved  his  hand  dismissingly  and  the 
negro  salaamed  and  left  the  room. 

After  a  moment  the  man  turned  to  Tom  and  said, 
with  obvious  perplexity:  "I  am  not  sure  it  is  wise 
for  me  to  meddle,  but  perhaps  it  is  written  that 
I  am  to  help  you  three  times.  Who  knows?" 

He  stared  into  Tom's  eyes  as  though  he  would 
read  a  word  there  —  either  yes  or  no.  But  Tom  said, 
a  trifle  impatiently: 

"Well,  sir?" 

"Go  to  the  opera  to-night.  Take  seat  H  77. 
No  other  seat  will  do." 

"H  77  —  to-night,"  repeated  Thomas  Thorne 
Merriwether. 

16  233 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"The  opera  is  'Madame  Butterfly.'" 
"Thanks,"  said  Tom,  and  started  for  the  door. 
He  halted  when  the  man  spoke. 

"It  is  the  seat  back  of  G  77.     None  other  will  do." 
"Good  day,  sir,"  said  Tom,  and  left  the  room. 


IV 

The  telephone  operator  in  E.  H.  Merriwether's 
office  manipulated  the  plugs  in  the  switchboard  and 
answered  in  advance: 

"Mr.  Merriwether's  office!" 

From  the  other  end  of  the  wire  came: 

"This  is-  the  Rivulet  Club.  Mr.  Waters  wishes 
to  speak  to  Mr.  E.  H.  Merri wether.  Personal 
matter." 

"He's  engaged  just  now.     Will  any  one  else  do?" 

"No.  Say  it  is  Mr.  Waters— about  Mr.  Tom 
Merri  wether." 

People  resorted  to  all  manner  of  tricks  and  sub 
terfuges  to  speak  to  Mr.  E.  H.  Merri  wether — deluded 
people  who  thought  they  could  get  what  they  wished 
if  only  they  could  speak  to  Mr.  Merriwether  himself. 
They  never  succeeded.  He  was  too  well  guarded 
by  highly  paid  experts  who  prevented  the  waste  of 
his  precious  time.  But  the  telephone  operator  knew 
her  business.  She  switched  the  would-be  conversa 
tionalist  on  to  the  private  secretary's  line,  saying : 

"Mr.  Waters,  Rivulet  Club,  wishes  to  speak  to 
Mr.  E.  H.  in  regard  to  Mr.  Tom  Merriwether." 

"I'll  talk  to  him,"  hastily  said  the  private  secre 
tary. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Waters!  This  is  McWayne,  Mr. 
Merriwether's  private  secretary.  Has  anything  hap- 

234 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

pened  to  Tom  that —  Oh!  Yes — of  course!  At 
once,  Mr.  Waters." 

McWayne  then  had  the  operator  put  Mr.  Waters 
on  Mr.  E.  H.'s  wire. 

"Who?"  said  the  czar  of  the  Pacific  &  South 
western.  "Waters?  Oh  yes.  Go  ahead!" 

And  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  heard,  in  a  young 
man's  voice : 

"Say,  Mr.  Merriwether,  some  of  the  fellows  here 
thought  I'd  better  speak  to  you  about  Tom.  He's 
been  acting  kind  of  queer;  of  course  I  don't  mean 
crazy  or — er — alarming;  but — don't  you  know? — 
unusual.  .  .  .  Yes,  sir!  A  little  unusual  for  him, 
Mr.  Merriwether.  To-day  it  was  about  the  opera. 
Says  he's  got  to  get  a  certain  seat,  no  matter  what  it 
costs.  Of  course  it  isn't  our  business.  .  .  .  Oh  no! 
he  never  drinks  too  much.  No;  never!  We 
don't  think  we  are  called  on  to  follow  him  to  the 
Metropolitan,  where  he  has  just  gone;  but  we 
thought  you  ought  to  know  it.  Please  don't  bring 
us  into  any — you  know  we  are  very  fond  of  Tom; 
and  we  were  a  little  worried,  he's  been  so  unlike 
himself  lately.  We  teased  him  about  being  in  love, 
and  he — er — he  seemed  to  get  quite  angry.  .  .  . 
Yes,  Mr.  Merriwether;  we'll  keep  you  posted;  and 
please  don't  give  me  away.  It  was  a  very  delicate 
matter  and —  Don't  mention  it,  Mr.  Merriwether. 
We'd  all  do  anything  for  Tom,  sir.  Good-by." 

E.  H.  Merriwether,  the  greatest  little  cuss  in  the 
world,  as  his  admirers  called  him,  hung  up  the 
telephone.  His  face,  that  impassive  gambler's  face 
which  never  told  anything,  now  showed  as  plainly 
as  could  be  that  he  was  wounded  in  a  vital  spot. 

His  son  Tom  was  all  this  great  millionaire  had! 
235 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

His  railroad  became  so  much  junk  and  his  vast  plans 
just  so  much  waste  paper  as  he  thought  of  Tom. 
Was  the  boy  going  insane?  Was  it  drugs?  Was  it 
one  of  those  mysterious  maladies  that  break  mil 
lionaires'  hearts  by  baffling  the  greatest  physicians 
of  the  entire  world  and  being  beyond  the  reach  of 
gold?  Or  was  it  a  joke?  Young  Evert  Waters  was 
a  friend  of  Tom's;  but  might  not  he  exaggerate? 
He  rang  the  bell  for  his  private  secretary. 

"McWayne,  send  somebody  with  brains  to  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  to  find  out  whether  my 
son  Tom  has  been  up  there — box-office — and  what 
he  is  up  to.  I  want  to  know  how  he  acts.  I  want 
to  know  where  the  boy  goes  and  what  he  does, 
whom  he  sees  and  where.  Get  some  specialist  on — 
er" — he  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  mental 
diseases — "on  nervous  troubles,  and  make  an  ap 
pointment  with  him  to  come  to  my  house  to-morrow 
morning.  He  will  have  breakfast  with  us — say,  at 
eight-thirty.  I  don't  want  Tom  to  know." 

He  avoided  McWayne's  eyes. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  McWayne. 

"Be  ready  to  notify  the  papers  to  suppress  any 
and  all  stories  about  Tom.  I  fear  nothing  and 
expect  nothing,  because  I  know  nothing.  Drop 
everything  else  and  attend  to  these  matters  at  once. 
I  have  heard  that  Tom  is  acting  a  little  queer.  It 
may  be  a  lie  or  a  joke — or  a  trick.  I  want  to  find 
out— that's  all." 

He  would  learn  before  he  acted  decisively.  He 
stared  at  a  pigeonhole  in  his  desk  marked  T.  T.  M. 
There  he  kept  all  letters  Tom  had  written  him  from 
boarding-school  and  from  college.  Presently  he 
raised  his  head  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  There  was 

236 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

no  need  to  worry  until  he  knew.  It  would  be  a 
waste  of  energy  and  of  time;  and,  for  all  his  millions, 
he  could  not  afford  the  waste.  He  rang  a  bell; 
and  when  a  clerk  appeared  he  said  in  his  calm,  emo 
tionless  voice: 

'Til  see  Governor  Bolt  on  the  moment  he  comes 
in." 

There  was  a  big  battle  on  between  capital  and 
labor.  He  was  in  the  thick  of  it.  He  put  Tom 
out  of  his  mind  for  the  time  being.  He  could  do 
that  at  will;  but  he  could  not  put  Tom  out  of  his 
heart — this  little  chap  that  people  called  ruthless. 


Tom  Merri wether  went  to  the  box-office  at  the 
Metropolitan  and  said,  pleasantly,  as  men  do  when 
they  ask  for  what  they  know  will  be  given  to  them: 

"I  want  the  seat  just  back  of  G  77 — orchestra — 
for  to-night.  I  suppose  it  will  be  H  77." 

The  clerk,  who  knew  the  heir  of  the  Merriwether 
millions,  said,  "I'll  see  whether  we  have  it,  Mr. 
Merriwether."  He  saw.  Then  he  said,  with  sincere 
regret:  "I'm  very  sorry.  It's  gone." 

"I  must  have  it,"  said  Tom,  determinedly. 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  I  can  help  you,  Mr.  Merri 
wether.  I  can  give  you  another  just  as — ! 

"I  don't  want  any  other  seat.     Who  bought  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  may  be  a  subscription  seat, 
sold  months  ago." 

"It's  the  double  seven  on  the  seventh  row  that  I 
am  concerned  about.  I  want  the  seat  just  back 
of  it." 

"I'll  call  up  the  ticket  agencies.  There's  a  bare 
237 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

chance  they  may  have  it."  After  a  few  minutes  he 
said,  "I'm  very  sorry,  Mr.  Merriwether,  but  I  can't 
get  it.  They  haven't  it." 

"I'm  willing  to  pay  any  price  for  H  77.  I'll  give 
you  a  hundred  dollars  if  you — " 

"Mr.  Merriwether,  I  couldn't  do  it  if  you  offered 
me  a  thousand!  If  I  could  do  it  at  all  I'd  be  only 
too  glad  to  do  it  for  you — for  nothing,"  the  clerk  said, 
and  blushed. 

Everybody  liked  Tom. 

The  sincerity  in  the  clerk's  voice  impressed  young 
Mr.  Merriwether,  who  thanked  him  warmly  and 
withdrew.  The  baffled  feeling  that  he  took  away 
with  him  from  the  ticket-window  grew  in  intensity 
until  he  was  ready  to  fight. 

It  was  a  natural-enough  impulse  that  led  him  back 
to  777  Fifth  Avenue;  but  he  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  he  was  angry  at  the  man  for  telling  him  to 
do  what  was  obviously  impossible  or  at  himself 
for  determining  to  find  her! 

He  rang  the  bell  of  the  house  of  mystery.  The 
footman  that  answered  was  one  of  the  intelligent 
four;  but  his  face  was  impassive,  as  though  he  had 
never  before  seen  Tom. 

"Your  master?"  asked  Tom,  abruptly. 

"Your  card,  please,"  said  the  footman,  impassively. 

Tom  gave  it  to  him.  The  man  disappeared, 
presently  to  return. 

"This  way,  sir."  And  at  the  door  in  the  rear  he 
paused  and  announced,  "Mr.  Merriwether!" 

The  master  of  the  house  was  in  his  usual  place. 
He  bowed  his  head  gravely  and  waited. 

"I  couldn't  get  the  seat,"  said  Tom,  with  a  frown. 

"It  is  written,  'Vain  are  man's  efforts!'" 

238      . 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

"That's  all  very  well,  my  friend.  But  the  next 
time- 

"Fate  deals  with  time — not  with  next  time! 
There  is  no  certainty  of  any  time  but  one.  If  you 
can  do  nothing  I  can  do  nothing.  I  still  say,  The 
seat  back  of  G  77  to-night." 

Tom  Merriwether  looked  searchingly  into  the  calm 
eyes  before  him.  The  baffled  feeling  returned ;  also, 
a  great  curiosity.  What  would  the  end  be?  At 
length  he  said,  "Good  day,  sir."  He  half  hoped  the 
man  would  volunteer  some  helpful  remark. 

"Good  day,  sir,"  said  the  man,  with  cold  polite 
ness. 

Tom  went  back  to  the  Opera  House  and  asked  for 
somebody  in  authority  to  whom  he  might  talk. 
They  ushered  him  into  Mr.  Kirsch's  presence. 
Mr.  Kirsch,  amiable  by  birth,  temperament,  and 
training,  listened  to  him  with  much  gravity;  also, 
with  a  concern  he  tried  to  conceal,  for  it  was  too  sad — 
a  bright,  clean-living,  intensely  likable  chap  like 
Tom,  only  heir  to  the  Merri wether  millions! 

Fearing  a  scene,  he  told  Tom  that  he  would  speak 
to  the  ticket-takers  in  the  lobby  to  be  on  the  look 
out  for  ticket  H  77.  Then  he  conferred  with  the 
emissary  Me  Wayne  had  sent,  who  thereupon  was 
able  to  send  in  a  most  alarming  report. 

The  private  secretary  softened  it  as  much  as  he 
could,  and  even  dared  to  suggest  to  the  chief  that 
it  might  be  a  bet;  but  the  little  czar  of  the  Pacific 
&  Southwestern,  who  had  never  flinched  under  any 
strain  or  stress,  grew  visibly  older  as  he  heard  that 
his  son  was  offering  thousands  for  an  opera-seat — 
for  the  seat  back  of  the  double  seven,  seventh  row. 
It  could  mean  but  one  thing ! 

239 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Tom  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  standing  beside 
the  ticket-collector  at  the  middle  door  of  the  main 
entrance  when  the  owner  of  H  77  appeared.  He  was 
a  fat  man  with  a  pink  and  shiny  face,  a  close-cropped 
mustache,  and  huge  pearl  studs.  The  fat  man  was 
fortunately  alone. 

"Sir,"  said  Tom,  "I  should  like  to  speak  a  moment 
with  you." 

The  man  looked  apprehensive.  Then  he  said, 
"What  is  it  about?" 

"For  very  strong  personal  reasons  I  should  like  to 
exchange  tickets  with  you.  I  can  give  you  G  120 
— every  bit  as  good — on  the  other  side  of  the  aisle." 

"Why  should  I  change?"  queried  the  shiny-faced 
man,  suspiciously. 

"To  oblige  a  very  nice  young  lady  and  myself. 
Of  course,  if  you  prefer  to  be  paid — " 

"I  don't  need  money." 

"Well,  I'll  pay  you  a  hundred  dollars  for  your 
ticket,"  said  Tom,  coldly. 

The  man  shook  his  head  from  force  of  habit,  in 
order  that  Tom  might  see  he  was  offering  too  little. 
Then  he  said,  recklessly : 

"It's  yours,  my  friend.  I  have  a  pet  charity.  I'll 
give  your  money  to  it.  Where's  the  hundred?" 

Tom  took  out  a  small  roll  of  yellow  bills,  pulled 
off  one,  and  handed  it  to  the  man  with  the  pet 
charity,  who  took  it,  looked  at  it,  nodded,  put  it 
in  his  pocket,  gave  the  coupon  to  Tom,  and  then 
held  out  his  right  hand. 

"Where  is  the  ticket  for  G  120  that  you'll  give  me 
in  place  of  mine?" 

Tom  gave  it  to  him  and  walked  into  the  house, 
not  knowing  that  McWayne's  emissary  had  listened 

240 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

and  reported.  He  sat  in  H  77  and  tried  to  laugh 
at  his  own  absurd  behavior;  but  somewhere  within 
him — away  in,  very  deep — something  was  thrillingly 
alert,  tantalizingly  expectant. 

The  seat  before  him  was  empty.  It  remained 
empty  during  the  first  act.  It  angered  Tom  that  the 
climax  should  be  so  long  in  coming.  The  three  seats 
in  front  of  him  remained  vacant  until  just  before 
the  curtain  went  up  on  the  last  act.  Somebody 
came  in  just  as  the  lights  were  lowered  and  occupied 
seat  077. 

Tom  sat  up  and  braced  himself.  He  leaned  over, 
vaguely  desiring  to  be  near  her.  Unconscious  that 
he  was  under  a  strain  he,  nevertheless,  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

Instantly  there  came  to  him  the  odor  of  sweet  peas, 
and  with  it  thoughts  of  summer,  of  a  beautiful  girl, 
of  a  soul-mate,  of  a  wife.  Love  filled  his  being.  He 
wished  to  love  and  be  loved.  He  wished  to  be  some 
body's  husband,  so  that  he  might  begin  to  live  the 
life  he  was  to  live  until  the  day  of  his  death ! 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  again  inhaled  the 
fragrance  of  sweet  peas — the  odor  that  must  mean 
kisses  in  the  open;  the  inarticulate  love-making  of 
breezes  and  blossoms;  the  multitudinous  whispers 
of  midsummer  nights  heard  by  love-hungry  ears. 
And  then  the  music!  There  came  the  breaking  of  a 
heart  about  to  cease  beating  and  the  sobbing  crash  of 
the  brasses  in  the  finale.  It  was  almost  more  than 
Tom  could  bear. 

Then  the  curtain  fell  and  light  flooded  the  house. 
People  streamed  out.  Tom  twisted  and  turned  to 
see  the  face  of  the  lady  who  made  him  think  of  the 
sweet  peas,  which  made  him  think  of  love  and  mar- 

241 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

riage  and  children — but  she  was  wrapped  to  the 
cheeks  in  a  fur-edged  opera-cloak  and  her  head  was 
covered  with  a  black-lace  wrap.  He  could  not  see 
her  face;  and  after  rivulets  of  people  reached  the 
main  stream  in  the  middle  aisle  he  found  himself 
hopelessly  separated  from  her.  He  tried  to  jostle 
his  way  through.  McWayne,  his  father's  private 
secretary,  suddenly  happened  to  be  there. 

"Hello,  Tom!"  he  said.    "What's  your  rush?" 

Tom  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  pursue  the  phan 
tom  of  sweet  peas  and  dreams  of  love  unless  he 
vaulted  over  the  stalls.  McWayne's  presence  made 
him  realize  how  his  friends  would  be  shocked  by 
such  actions. 

"No  hurry  at  all,"  said  Tom,  who,  after  all,  was 
a  Merriwether.  "Just  wanted  to  smoke  and  to 
see  whether  I  knew  that  girl." 

"I'll  bet  she's  a  pippin!"  said  McWayne,  with  a 
friendly  smile.  It  irritated  Tom. 

"I  don't  know  any  of  your  friends,"  said  Tom, 
coldly;  "lady  friends  and  pippins,  fellows  like  you 
call  them,  I  believe." 

That  was  what  convinced  McWayne  that  the 
worst  was  to  be  feared  about  poor  Tom,  who  was  so 
considerate  and  amiable  when  normal.  Poor  Tom! 
McWayne  telephoned  to  the  waiting  E.  H.  Merri 
wether,  whose  only  reply  was  to  ask  the  private 
secretary  to  arrange  to  have  Dr.  Frauenthal,  the 
great  specialist,  at  breakfast  in  the  Merriwether 
house  the  next  morning,  without  fail. 

It  was  a  common  occurrence  for  Dr.  Frauenthal 
to  meet — under  false  pretenses,  as  it  were — persons 
whose  sanity  was  suspected  by  fond  relatives  who 
dared  not  openly  acknowledge  their  suspicions.  He 

242  > 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

was  a  man  whose  eyes  had  been  compared  to  psychic 
corkscrews,  with  which  he  brought  the  patient's 
secret  thoughts  to  the  light  of  day.  Some  one  said 
of  him  that,  by  inducing  a  feeling  of  guilt  and  detec 
tion  among  the  predatory  rich,  he  was  able  to  exact 
colossal  fees  from  them.  He  was  the  man  who  had 
made  Or d way  Blake  give  up  making  six  millions  a 
year  in  Wall  Street  by  quitting  the  game.  .Mr. 
Blake  was  still  alive. 

Frauenthal  was  introduced  to  Tom  as  a  gentleman 
whose  advice  "E.  H."  desired.  The  men  conversed 
on  various  topics  apparently  haphazard;  but  in 
reality  Tom,  without  knowing  it,  was  answering 
test  questions.  The  answers  could  not  conclusively 
prove  insanity,  but  they  would  certainly  show 
whether  a  more  thorough  examination  was  necessary. 

Mr.  Merriwether  and  Frauenthal  left  the  house 
together.  They  entered  the  waiting  brougham.  The 
great  little  railroad  magnate  gave  the  address  of 
the  doctor's  office  to  the  footman,  then  turned  to 
Frauenthal  and  said,  calmly: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

His  voice  was  steady  and  cold;  his  face  imper 
turbable;  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  intelligent  scru 
tiny  on  the  specialist's,  but  his  fingers  tightly 
clutched  a  rolled  morning  newspaper. 

Frauenthal  turned  his  clinical  stare  on  E.  H. 
Merriwether,  as  though  the  financier  were  really 
the  patient.  He  swept  the  little  man's  face — the 
eyes,  the  mouth,  and  the  poise — and  then  let  his 
eyes  linger  on  the  clenched  fingers  about  the  news 
paper. 

The  iron-nerved,  glacial-blooded,  flint-hearted 
Merriwether  could  not  control  himself  after  forty- 

243 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

five  seconds  of  this.    He  flung  the  newspaper  on  the 
floor  violently. 

"Go  ahead!"  he  said,  harshly. 

The  doctor  did  not  smile  outwardly;  but  you  felt 
that  within  himself  he  had  found  an  answer  to  one 
of  his  own  unspoken  questions  about  the  father  of 
the  suspect. 

"There  are,  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether,"  he  began, 
in  the  measured  tones  and  overcareful  enunciation 
of  a  lecturer  at  a  clinic,  "various  forms  of — let  us 
say — madness;  and  your  son  Tom,  a  fine  young 
man  of  twenty-eight,  is  quite  unmistakably  suffering 
from—" 

He  paused  to  give  the  fine  young  man's  emotion 
less  father  an  opportunity  to  show  human  feelings. 
Frauenthal  was  always  interested  in  the  struggle 
between  the  emotional  and  the  physical  in  his  mil 
lionaire  patients. 

"Go  on!"  said  E.  H.  Merriwether,  so  very  coldly 
as  to  irritate. 

His  eyes  never  left  the  alienist's  own  secret- 
draggers;  but  he  was  drumming  on  his  thigh  with 
the  tips  of  his  uncontrollable  fingers.  Ordinarily 
his  desk  would  have  screened  from  sight  this  betrayal 
of  human  feeling. 

"Your  son,  sir,  is  suffering,  beyond  any  question, 
from  the  oldest  madness  of  all — love!" 

"What?" 

"Your  son  Tom  is  in  love.  That  is  "what  ails 
him." 

"Are  you  serious?"  Mr.  Merriwether  was  frown 
ing  fiercely  now. 

"You'll  think  so,"  retorted  Frauenthal,  coldly, 
"when  you  get  my  bill." 

244 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

"My  boy  Tom  in  love?"  repeated  the  czar,  blankly. 

"Yes." 

"With  whom?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  a  neurologist — not  a  sooth 
sayer." 

"Well,  suppose  he  is  in  love — what  of  it?" 

"Nothing — to  me." 

"Then  what  is  serious  about  it?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  for  its  seriousness  to  you  de 
pends  on  your  point  of  view  toward  society  at  large. 
There  are,  of  course,  the  obvious  disquieting  circum 
stances." 

"For  instance?" 

"He  is  a  fine  chap — healthy,  bright,  honest. 
What  is  the  reason  he  has  said  nothing  to  you? 
Is  he  ashamed  or  afraid?  If  he  is  ashamed  it  is 
very  serious  to  both  of  you.  If  he  is  afraid — well, 
then  the  seriousness  depends  on  how  intelligent  a 
father  you  have  been  to  him." 

"Don't  talk  like  a  damned  fool!  I've  been  a  good 
father  to  him;  of  course — " 

"Wait!  Wait!  First  tell  me  why  you  do  what 
you  ask  me  not  to  do?"  In  the  specialist's  eyes 
was  a  sort  of  professional  curiosity. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  E.  H.  Merriwether, 
impatiently.  It  exasperated  him  to  be  puzzled. 

"Why  do  you  talk  like  a  damned  fool?"  said 
Frauenthal. 

Nobody  ever  talked  that  way  to  Mr.  E.  H.  Mer 
riwether,  overlord  of  the  greatest  railroad  empire  in 
history.  He  flushed  and  was  about  to  retort  angrily, 
but  controlled  himself  in  time.  The  brougham  had 
reached  Frauenthal's  office.  Mr.  Merriwether  spoke 
too  calmly — you  could  feel  the  tense  restraint: 

245 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Dr.  Frauenthal,  I've  heard  a  great  deal  of  your 
wonderful  ability." 

He  paused.  It  came  hard  to  him  to  be  ingratiating. 
This  difficulty  is  the  revenge  which  nature  takes 
on  people  who  acquire  the  habit  of  paying  money 
for  everything  in  this  world.  Such  men  cannot  talk 
except  with  a  check-book,  and  the  check-book  loses 
the  power  of  speech  before  happiness — and  before 
death. 

"What  very  difficult  thing  is  it  you  wish  me  to 
do  for  you?"  asked  Frauenthal,  coldly. 

"You  are  sure  Tom  is  not—  '   He  hesitated. 

"Crazy?"  prompted  the  specialist. 

"Yes." 

"Yes;  I'm  sure  he  is  not.  Therefore  he  is  saner 
than  you  who  are  a  money-maker." 

Mr.  Merri wether  let  this  remark  pass.  He  was 
anxious  to  save  Tom.  This  man  was  uncannily 
sharp.  He  said,  "And  can't  you  do  something,  so 
that  Tom  will  not—" 

"I  am  not  God!"  interrupted  Frauenthal. 

"Then,  what  can  I  do?  What  do  you  suggest 
might  be  done?" 

"As  a  neurologist?" 

"Yes." 

"Nothing." 

"Then,  as  a  man  of  the  world — as  one  who  knows 
human  nature?  You  see,  this — this — er — sort  of 
thing  is  not  in  my  line.  What  shall  I  do?"  It  was 
a  terrible  thing  for  the  great  Merriwether  to  confess 
inefficiency  in  anything. 

"Pray!" 

The  little  magnate  flushed.  "Dr.  Frauenthal," 
he  began,  with  chilling  dignity,  "I  asked — " 

246 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

"And  I  answered.  Have  your  millions  deafened 
you?  Pray!  Pray  to  whatever  other  god  you  may 
have  that  the  lady  prove  to  be  neither  a  prima  donna 
nor  a  novelist.  A  temperamental  daughter-in-law 
is  really  worse  than  you  deserve,  for  all  the  money 
they  say  you  have  made.  There  are  check-book 
gods  and  stock-ticker  gods;  and  there  is  also  God. 
I'd  pray  to  Him  if  I  were  you.  Good  day,  sir!" 

The  footman  had  opened  the  door,  and  the  great 
specialist,  without  another  look  at  the  railroad  man, 
got  out  and  walked  into  his  house. 

"Where  to,  sir?"  asked  the  footman. 

Mr.  Merriwether,  however,  was  vexed  to  think 
that  in  relieving  his  anxiety  over  Tom's  sanity 
Frauenthal  had  replaced  it  with  a  dread  question- 
Why  had  not  Tom  told  his  father  about  her?  The 
boy  must  be  either  crazy  or  in  love.  If  he  was  not 
crazy,  who  in  blazes  was  she?  What  was  she?  Why 
was  she?  All  this  angered  him.  He  muttered  aloud: 

"Hell!" 

"Yes,  sir — very  good,  sir,"  said  the  footman,  from 
force  of  habit.  Then  he  trembled;  but  his  master 
had  not  heard  him.  The  footman  breathed  deeply 
and  said,  tremulously,  "B-beg  p-pardon,  sir?" 

"Nearest  Subway  station!"  said  E.  H.  Merri 
wether. 

He  was  in  a  hurry  to  reach  his  office,  not  because 
he  had  important  business  to  transact  there,  but  be 
cause  somehow  he  always  thought  best  in  his  own 
chair  before  his  own  desk  in  his  own  office.  There 
he  was  an  autocrat,  and  there  he  could  think  auto 
cratically  and  issue  commands  that  were  obeyed. 
He  had  much  thinking  to  do — Tom  was  concerned, 
his  son  Tom;  and  Tom's  future.  And  it  was  now 

24? 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

clear  that  T.  T.  Merriwether's  future  was  also  the 
future  of  E.  H.  Merriwether! 

Why  had  this  thing  come  on  him?  Talk  about 
your  thunderbolts  out  of  a  clear  sky — this  love- 
affair  was  a  million  times  worse!  It  was  mysterious 
—and  it  is  well  known  in  Wall  Street  that  a  mystery 
is  worse  than  nitroglycerine — infinitely  more  dan 
gerous. 

What  was  this  love-affair?  How  far  had  it  gone? 
Just  where  was  the  dynamite  stored?  Who  was  she? 
Why  did  not  Tom  say  something?  Why  could 
not  Tom  have  fallen  in  love  safely?  Why  could  he 
not  have  married  a  good  girl  who  would  help  him 
and  help  E.  H.  Merriwether  help  both  by  minding 
her  own  business — to  wit,  a  few  little  male  Merri- 
wethers  ? 

It  was  time  Tom  became  his  father's  successor- 
to-be.  E.  H.  Merriwether  had  loved  to  do  his  own 
work  his  own  way  all  his  life.  It  was  his  pleasure. 
But  the  work  suddenly  took  on  an  aspect  of  far 
greater  importance  than  the  worker.  The  work  was 
the  work  of  the  Merriwethers — not  of  one  Merri 
wether;  not  even  of  the  great  E.  H.,  but  of  all 
the  Merriwethers,  living  and  to  be. 

Tom  must  be  trained  not  only  to  be  the  son  of  a 
Merriwether,  but  to  be  himself  a  Merriwether. 
And  therefore  E.  H.  must  cease  to  be  a  railroad 
expert  toward  Tom;  he  must  become  Tom's  father, 
the  trainer  of  a  successor — flesh  and  blood  the  same; 
the  fortune  the  same. 

And,  as  a  sense  of  impending  loss  always  heightens 
values,  E.  H.  Merriwether  suddenly  realized  how 
important  to  him  and  to  his  happiness  Tom  was. 
He  loved  Tom,  who  was  not  only  his  only  son,  but 

248 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

the  only  Merriwether.     That  told  everything:    He 
loved  Tom. 

VI 

After  his  father  and  Dr.  Frauenthal  left  the 
house  Tom  tried  to  feel  that  he  had  finished  his 
breakfast — that  is  to  say,  he  attempted  to  read  the 
newspapers.  But  the  printed  letters  failed  to  com 
bine  themselves  into  intelligible  forms,  and  even 
when  he  read  a  word  here  and  there  his  mind  did 
not  record  it.  Obeying  an  unexplained  impulse,  he 
rose. 

Then  he  sat  down  merely  because  he  had  been 
standing.  Then  he  tried  to  reason  why  he  was 
sitting  and  what  sitting  there  thinking  of  himself 
in  that  particular  position  meant.  But  the  sky  was 
too  blue!  It  called  to  him  in  an  azure  voice  that 
made  him  long  for  the  sunshine  and  the  open  air, 
and  the  rooflessness  of  outdoors  that  permits  ten 
million  fancies  to  soar  unchecked. 

Also,  he  longed  for  something;  and,  though  he 
knew  that  he  longed,  he  did  not  know  exactly  what 
it  was  he  longed  for,  because  it  was  not  his  mind 
that  desired  it,  but  all  of  him;  and  all  of  him  did 
not  think  with  precision.  Young  men  are  apt  to 
feel  like  that  in  the  springtime — also  young  women. 
Also  widowers  and  relicts  and  canaries  and  heifers 
and  burros — and  even  bankers! 

Therefore  Tom  swore  at  that  nothing  which  is 
always  something  and  gave  up  trying  to  make  him 
self  think  that  he  wanted  to  read  the  morning 
papers.  His  nervous  system  coined  a  proverb  for 
him:  "When  in  doubt,  walk  out!"  So  he  walked 
out  of  the  house  and  crossed  the  Avenue. 
17  249 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

He  found  himself  in  Central  Park — the  remedy 
which  the  very  rich  do  not  and  the  very  poor  cannot 
use  to  cure  the  spring  in  the  blood.  And  as  he  walked 
the  soul-fidgets  left  him,  so  that  after  a  mile  or  two 
he  quite  cold-bloodedly  began  to  think  of  his  most 
pressing  duties.  He  went  about  them  systemat 
ically. 

The  first  thing  he  had  to  do  was  some  shopping; 
shopping  on  Fifth  Avenue- — on  Fifth  Avenue  where 
the  jewelry-shops  were;  in  the  jewelry-shops  where 
the  wedding-presents  were.  There!  He  was  off 
again.  Everybody  was  getting  married!  What 
business  had  people  to  make  people  think  of  wives — 
yes,  wives — plural;  lots  of  wives;  all  beautiful,  all 
desirable  and  worthy ;  all  lovely  and  loving  and  lov 
able;  and  all  fit  to  be  rolled  into  one — Tom's? 

It  was  not  polygamy.  It  was  merely  composite 
photography.  The  one  he  desired  had  a  little  of 
each  of  the  girls  he  admired.  She  was  the  amorous 
crazy-quilt  that  youth  is  so  apt  to  dazzle  itself  with 
in  the  springtime — a  nose  from  a  friend;  two  lips 
from  a  stranger;  a  complexion  from  a  distant  rela 
tive;  a  pair  of  eyes  from  the  sky;  a  heart  from  the 
heart  of  the  sun — and  lo !  the  wife- to-be ! 

And  so  the  wedding-presents — a  silver  service,  to 
be  used  by  two  sitting  on  opposite  sides  of  a  table, 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes;  a  glittering  string,  to 
be  admired  on  a  wonderful  throat — were  heavy 
enough  to  keep  Tom's  soul  from  soaring.  And  be 
cause  his  feet  were  on  the  pavement  he  soon  found 
himself — of  course! — before  777  Fifth  Avenue. 

Why  should  be  not  go  to  that  house?  And  why 
should  he  not  ring  the  bell?  Why  not?  He  was 
just  in  the  mood  to  meet  her! 

250 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

His  intentions  were  above  suspicion,  though  mar 
riage  is  a  serious  thing;  but,  really,  now  was  the 
time  for  the  adventure  to  appear — even  if  the 
adventure  turned  out  to  be  merely  the  adventuress. 

Therefore,  with  the  inexorable  logic  of  the  most 
illogical  state  of  mind  known,  he  rang  the  bell  and 
waited  with  an  eagerness — half  hope,  half  curiosity — 
most  unusual  among  people  who,  like  Tom,  early 
acquire  the  habit  of  asking,  check-book  in  hand,  for 
whatever  they  wish. 

The  footman  who  answered  was  one  of  the  men 
with  the  over-intelligent  faces. 

"I  am  Mr.  Merriwether.  I  wish  to  see  your 
master." 

Tom's  voice  rang  a  trifle  more  commandingly  than 
the  occasion  appeared  to  call  for.  There  was  a  phys 
iological  reason  for  it.  The  man  hesitated  so  that 
Tom  wondered ;  but  presently  all  expression  vanished 
from  the  non -menial  face  and  the  footman  said : 

"This  way,  if  you  please,  sir." 

He  preceded  Tom  to  the  door  of  his  master's 
library.  He  rapped  twice  smartly  and  waited  in  an 
attitude  of  listening.  Tom  also  listened  intently; 
he  could  not  have  told  why  he  did  it — though  it  was, 
of  course,  inevitable. 

Not  a  sound  was  heard.  The  over-intelligent 
footman's  lips  moved  for  all  the  world  as  though  he 
were  counting,  and  presently  he  opened  the  door 
and  announced : 

1  'Mr.  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether — 7-7-77." 

Tom  entered.  The  master  of  this  strange  house 
was  seated  at  the  over-elaborate  library  table,  writ 
ing.  He  looked  up,  but  before  Tom  could  speak  the 
man  said,  coldly : 

251 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"I  cannot  do  anything  for  you,  sir." 

It  was  so  much  like  a  refusal  to  give  alms  to  a 
beggar  that  Tom  flushed  angrily.  He  managed  to 
check  a  sharp  retort  on  the  very  brink  and,  instead, 
began  in  a  mildly  ironical  tone : 

"Of  course  you  know  what  I — " 

"Of  course!"  interrupted  the  man,  rudely;  and 
he  began  impatiently  to  drum  on  the  edge  of  the 
table  with  his  penholder.  "Do  you  imagine  for  a 
minute  that  you  are  the  only  mateless  male  in 
New  York  looking  for  his  destined  bride?  And  do 
you  really  think  that  the  fruitlessness — until  now — 
of  your  search  is  a  world-tragedy?  Because  your 
name  happens  to  be  Thomas — which  is  a  descriptive 
title  when  applied  to  marriageable  felines  of  your 
own  sex — do  you  fancy  I  am  concerned  with  your 
affairs?  Young  man,  you  are  the  only  son  and  heir 
of  a  very  rich  man;  but  there  are  some  things  that 
money  cannot  buy.  Love  is  one  of  them." 

He  frowned  at  Tom,  but  something  in  the  young 
millionaire's  face  made  him  relent.  He  went  on, 
more  kindly,  more  encouragingly: 

"My  boy,  she  is  seeking  you,  even  as  you  are 
seeking  her.  She  is  very  beautiful!  You  will  meet 
her  at  the  appointed  hour — have  no  doubt  of  it. 
After  your  perfectly  stupid  failure  at  the  opera — 
Wait!"  He  held  up  a  hand  as  Tom  was  about  to 
speak  in  self-defense.  "The  very  futility  of  your 
manceuvers  shows  that  youth,  brains,  money,  per 
sistence,  and  desire  are  all  powerless  to  hurry  fate. 
As  you,  who  have  never  seen  her,  love  her,  she  loves 
you,  though  she  has  never  seen  you.  She  will  know 
you  as  you  will  know  her;  but  she  is  gone!" 

"Where?"    Tom  spoke  before  he  knew  it. 
252 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

"Be  patient!  After  you  meet  her  you  will  live 
with  her  until  death  parts  you." 

He  said  this,  without  theatrical  emphasis,  in  a 
most  matter-of-fact  way.  Tom's  suspicions,  always 
present  in  this  house  of  mystification  rather  than  of 
mystery,  were  not  made  livelier  by  the  man's  words; 
but  neither  were  they  allayed  by  the  tone  of  his 
voice.  He  hesitated,  and  then,  adventure  whispering, 
he  said : 

"To  be  perfectly  frank,  I  am  interested  in  this— 

"Young  man,  I  told  you  before  that  I  ask  nothing 
of  you — no  favor,  no  money,  no  service;  not  even 
your  interest.  When  I  asked  you  to  do  a  certain 
thing  you  did  it.  I  am  not  particularly  grateful. 
You  could  not  have  refused!  Possibly  you  can  ex 
plain  to  your  own  satisfaction  your  own  inexplicable 
acquiescence;  you  doubtless  have  evolved  a  dozen 
most  ingenious  theories  to  account  for  your  doings 
and  mine.  The  shortest  and  easiest  explanation 
is  the  true  one — fate.  After  you  marry  you  will 
compare  notes  with  her — and  yet  you  will  not  un 
derstand  why  I  concerned  myself  with  your  lives. 
You  will  perplex  yourselves  so  unnecessarily;  all 
because  of  your  unwillingness  to  say,  fate!  Men 
hate  fate  as  a  hypothesis.  It  is  not  flattering  to 
admit  that  we  are  but  puppets — the  strongest  of  us 
no  stronger  than  an  autumn  leaf  in  the  wind.  And 
because  you  do  not  see  fate  you  do  not  believe  in  it. 
And,  for  fear  of  being  considered  an  ass  by  a  lot  of 
asses,  who  also  do  not  believe  in  fate,  you  will  never 
tell  any  one  your  romantic  story.  And  yet,  of  the 
scores  you  call  friends,  there  are  only  seven  men  who 
are  happily  married.  And  those  seven  I  helped,  as 
I  have  helped  you  and  as  I  shall  help  those  I  am 

253 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

ordered  to  help.  Even  now  the  Dispeller  of  Dark 
ness  is  out,  making  one  heart  send  a  message  in  the 
dark  to  another  heart  waiting  for  it!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  cannot  or  will  not 
arrange  for  my  meeting  the  mysterious  person  you 
tell  me  I  am  going  to  marry?" 

"I  mean  to  say  that  your  coming  to  this  house 
with  such  a  hope  merely  means  a  waste  of  your  time, 
young  sir,  and  of  mine.  You  will  meet  your  love, 
but  you  cannot  find  her.  No  man  finds  happiness 
by  means  of  a  systematic  or  diligent  search.  It 
comes  or  it  does  not  come — as  God  wills." 

The  man  rose.     Tom  also  rose  and  said: 

"But  at  least  tell  me  where  this — this  alleged  fate 
of  mine  is." 

The  man  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  that  was  in 
the  nature  of  a  mild  sneer. 

"Doubting  Thomas!  He  won't  admit  it,  but  he 
can't  deny  it!  Ah,  so  wise!  So  clever  in  his  sus 
picions!  So  intelligently  skeptical!  Ah  yes!" 

Still  nodding  in  ironical  admiration,  he  approached 
the  filing-cabinet. 

"Let  me  see — you  are  7-7-77."  He  pulled  out 
drawer  seven  in  section  seven  and  took  out  an 
envelope  from  which  he  drew  a  lot  of  papers.  He 
read  a  typewritten  sheet.  He  replaced  the  papers, 
closed  the  drawer,  turned,  and  stared  doubtfully 
at  Tom,  muttering  half  to  himself:  "I  don't  know! 
I  don't  know!" 

"What?"  asked  Tom. 

"Do  you  really  want  her?  Do  you  feel  that  you 
must  meet  her  soon  or  die?" 

Tom  knew  he  would  not  die  if  he  did  not  meet  her 
soon,  but  as  for  wanting  her,  he  certainly  did.  Every 

254 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

cell  in  his  body  was  on  the  alert,  waiting  for  her, 
hoping  to  see  her;  and  adventure,  through  a  mega 
phone,  was  vociferating  in  the  middle  of  his  soul: 
"Come!  Come!"  Therefore  Tom  looked  the  man 
straight  in  the  eyes  and  answered : 

"Yes,  I  do!" 

The  man  hesitated.     Then  he  said:- 

"Listen!  It  is  for  the  last  time.  Do  you  hear? 
For  the  last  time!  Do  you  agree?" 

He  looked  sternly  at  Tom,  who  thereupon  an 
swered,  impatiently: 

"Yes!    Yes!" 

"Boston!  Hotel  Lorraine!  Secure  Room  77, 
seventh  floor.  On  Thursday  at  exactly  7  P.M.  be 
in  the  southeast  corner  of  the  library  or  reading- 
room,  which  is  on  the  left  of  the  hall  as  you  go  to 
the  main  dining-room.  Green  arm-chair.  Hold 
your  hat  between  your  knees — bottom  side  upward. 
Close  your  eyes.  A  letter  will  be  dropped  into  the 
hat.  Then  do  as  you  please.  Personally  I  don't 
think  it  will  help  or  hinder.  But  you  are  young; 
and  perhaps  if  you  wish  hard  enough  it  may  happen 
according  to  your  desire.  Good  day!" 

The  man  turned  his  back  squarely  on  Tom,  leaving 
to  the  heir  of  the  Merriwether  millions  no  alterna 
tive  but  to  go  out  dissatisfied,  excited,  skeptical, 
hopeful,  and  determined  to  go  to  Boston — danger  or 
no  danger,  swindle  or  no  swindle. 

The  mysterious  man,  too  mysterious  to  be  any 
thing  but  a  charlatan,  who  said  he  did  not  wish  Tom's 
money  and,  for  that  reason,  probably  did — this  man 
promised  Tom  he  should  meet  a  girl — a  beautiful 
girl,  the  girl  he  would  marry.  If  there  was  to  be  no 
compulsion  about  it;  if  they,  the  man  and  his  ac- 

255 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

complices,  counted  on  her  charms  to  capture  Tom's 
heart  and  hand — why,  the  sooner  she  began  the  at 
tack,  the  better.  Also,  it  was  one  of  those  things  that 
only  an  ass  would  talk  about,  since  the  telling  would 
put  an  end  to  all  doubts  as  to  the  teller's  asininity. 

Therefore,  without  saying  a  word  to  anybody, 
Tom  went  to  Boston,  not  knowing  that  McWayne's 
detectives  had  orders  to  follow  Tom  wherever  he 
went  and  to  report  in  detail  what  he  was  seen  to  do 
and  what  he  was  heard  to  say  and  to  whom. 

Tom  arrived  in  Boston,  went  to  the  Hotel  Lorraine, 
registered,  and  asked  the  polite  room  clerk  for  Room 
77  on  the  seventh  floor.  The  clerk  smiled  pleasantly, 
as  he  always  did  whenever  a  guest-to-be  asked  for 
rooms  that  did  not  end  in  thirteen,  disappeared  to 
look  at  the  index,  and  returned. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  that  room  is  taken.  I  can 
give  you — " 

"Taken!"  said  Tom,  in  such  a  disappointed  tone 
that  the  clerk  deigned  to  explain  sympathetically: 

"Engaged  by  telegraph." 

"Who  engaged  it?" 

Tom  asked  this  so  peremptorily  that  the  clerk 
looked  at  him  icily  with  raised  eyebrows,  turned  his 
back  on  the  New-Yorker,  made  a  pretense  of  once 
more  looking  at  the  index  of  rooms  and  guests,  and 
said  to  him  with  a  cold  determination  in  his  voice: 

"I  made  a  mistake.  I  thought  we  had  a  vacant 
room  on  the  eighth  floor.  I  find  we  have  no  vacant 
room  anywhere.  I'm  sorry,  sir.  Nothing  left." 

He  marked  something  after  Tom's  name  on  the 
register  and  turned  away.  He  evidently  considered 
the  incident  closed. 

Tom  was  too  surprised  to  be  angry.  Then  he  re- 

256 


CHEAP   AT   A   MILLION 

covered  himself.  His  business  in  Boston  was  to  get 
a  certain  room  in  this  hotel.  He  was  a  son  of  his 
father;  so  he  said,  with  a  quiet  determination  that 
disturbed  the  clerk: 

"I  must  have  Room  77  on  the  seventh  floor!  The 
price  is  of  no  consequence.  I  am  Mr.  Merriwether." 

"I  told  you  it  was  engaged." 

"And  I  told  you  I  must  have  it.  Don't  you  un 
derstand  English  ?" 

"Don't  you?"  said  the  clerk,  trying  to  disguise  his 
growing  uneasiness  with  a  sneer. 

This  made  Tom  calm.    He  said,  quietly : 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  send  my  card  to  Mr. 
Starrett,  the  owner  of  this  hotel?  He  knows  who  I 
am  and  who  my  father  is ;  but  if  he  should  have  for 
gotten,  say  that  he  is  to  call  up  Major  Wilkinson,  of 
Pierce,  Wilkinson  &  Company,  the  bankers,  or  Mr. 
Blandy,  of  the  Moontucket  National  Bank,  or  any 
body  who  knows  where  New  York  is  on  the  map. 
Good  heavens!  there  must  be  somebody  in  Boston 
who  hasn't  been  asleep  for  the  last  twenty  years!" 

The  clerk  decided  to  be  polite.  The  name  Merri- 
wether  had  a  familiar  sound,  but  he  could  not  asso 
ciate  it.  He  said,  more  politely : 

"I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Merriwether,  but  the  room  you 
want — and  three  others  with  it — have  been  engaged." 

"By  whom?" 

"You  are  asking  me  to  break  one  of  our  rules." 

11  Well,  can  you  tell  me  whether  it  has  been  engaged 
since  yesterday?" 

"Oh,  longer  than  that!"  He  disappeared,  con 
sulted  a  book,  and  came  back  with  the  triumphant 
expression  human  beings  put  on  when  they  do  not 
wish  to  say  "  I  told  you  so,"  aloud.  "Engaged  and 

257 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

paid  for  since  the  eighth,  Mr.  Merriwether.  That's 
nine  days  ago.  So,  you  see,  we  can't  do  what  you 
ask  us  to.  Sorry!" 

Wherever  he  went,  Tom  thought  he  was  confronted 
by  crude  attempts  at  mystery.  To  send  him  to  this 
particular  room,  77  on  the  seventh  floor,  was  merely 
the  same  as  an  effort  to  impress  children  by  using  the 
magical  number  seven. 

Who  had  engaged  the  room  ?  Was  it  an  accomplice 
or  some  stranger  guiltless  of  participation  in  the 
rather  juvenile  joke? 

Still,  Tom  was  in  Boston  to  do  a  particular  thing; 
and,  though  much  of  the  spring  restlessness  had  gone 
from  his  veins,  there  remained  the  desire  to  see  the 
affair  through  to  the  end,  whether  the  end  should  be 
a  smile  or  a  mild  oath.  Therefore,  after  a  pause,  Tom 
said  to  the  clerk : 

"Can  you  give  me  the  room  exactly  opposite  77  on 
the  seventh  floor?" 

The  clerk  hesitated,  then  said: 

"Just  a  minute,  please." 

He  consulted  one  of  the  bookkeepers,  from  whom 
he  must  have  learned  whose  son  Tom  was.  And, 
though  Boston  is  not  New  York,  money  is  money, 
even  in  Massachusetts;  and  the^heir  to  fifty  or  a 
hundred  million  dollars  is  something,  whether  or  not 
he  is  somebody. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  clerk,  and  handed  the  key  to 
a  young  man  called,  in  New  York,  a  bell-boy.  The 
young  man  now  preceded  Tom  to  the  seventh  floor 
and  ushered  the  New-Yorker  into  Room  78. 

Tom  gave  the  studious  youth  a  dollar  and  never 
noticed  that  the  boy  regarded  the  bill  with  a  mixture 
of  suspicion  and  alarm,  put  it  gingerly  into  his  pocket, 

258 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

and  left  the  room,  closing  the  door.  Tom  opened 
the  door.  The  boy  thought  it  had  opened  itself  and 
returned  to  close  it.  Tom  waved  him  away.  The 
boy  hastily  retreated.  He  did  not,  however,  throw 
away  the  dollar.  He  had  discovered  it  was  not 
"phony." 

The  bell-boy  found  the  room  clerk  engaged  in  con 
versation  with  two  men.  He,  divining  that  the  talk 
concerned  the  generous  lunatic,  flung  at  the  room 
clerk  that  look  of  exaggerated  perplexity  which  will 
cause  any  normal  human  being  inevitably  to  ask: 
"What  is  it?" 

The  room  clerk  saw  the  look  and  still  kept  on 
talking  with  the  men;  whereupon  the  bell-boy 
walked  up  to  the  desk,  frowned  fiercely,  and  mut 
tered,  "He  is  in  his  room!" 

"What's  that,  boy?" 

"I  said,"  retorted  the  studious  youth,  glacially, 
"he  was  in  his  room — 78.  He  gave  me  a  dollar  and 
left  the  door  open.  I  tried  to  close  it,  but  he  opened 
it  again — after  he  gave  me  the  dollar." 

The  clerk,  awe  in  his  face,  turned  to  the  men  and 
nodded  confirmatively. 

"Your  man!"  he  said.  "Of  course  we  don't  want 
any  fuss — ' 

"We'll  telephone  Mr.  McWayne,  the  private 
secretary.  The  young  fellow  isn't  violent,  you 
know." 

The  hotel  clerk  said  the  inevitable  thing: 

"Only  son,  too — isn't  he?" 

"Yes.  Over  a  hundred  million  dollars,  I've 
heard."  The  detective,  induced  thereto  by  the  in 
vitation  in  the  clerk's  voice,  had  vouchsafed  inside 
information. 

259 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Too  bad!"  murmured  the  clerk,  thinking  of  the 
hundred  million  and  Tom.  "Too  damned  bad!" 
he  almost  whimpered,  thinking  of  the  hundred 
million  and  himself.  To  show  that  he  was  unim 
pressed  by  vast  wealth  he  added,  sternly,  "No 
trouble,  you  understand!" 

One  of  the  men  whom  McWayne  had  instructed 
to  shadow  Tom  sat  in  the  lobby  just  in  front  of  the 
elevator.  The  other,  with  the  clerk's  permission, 
went  up  to  the  seventh  floor  and  sat  down  by  the 
floor  telephone  operator.  From  there  he  could  keep 
a  ten-dollar-a-day  eye  on  Room  78. 

Meantime  Tom's  impatience  had  reached  such  a 
point  that  he  could  not  sit  still.  Through  his  open 
door  he  could  see  the  closed  door  of  Room  77.  The 
thought  came  to  him  to  see  who  was  in  that  room. 
Then  it  struck  him  that  perhaps  the  mysterious  man 
in  New  York  had  reckoned  precisely  on  rousing  the 
Merriwether  curiosity.  Perhaps  an  unpleasant  sur 
prise  awaited  the  man  who  should  enter  Room  77. 
Perhaps  the  room  was  occupied  by  some  one  who 
had  nothing  to  do  with  her — and  therefore  nothing 
to  do  with  him.  Perhaps  he  should  put  himself  in  a 
ridiculous  predicament.  Perhaps  a  million  dis 
agreeable  things  might  happen,  making  it  obviously 
the  unwise  thing  to  do  to  go  into  Room  77. 

All  these  reflections,  however,  weighed  no  more 
than  a  shadow  with  him.  The  more  he  thought  of 
why  he  should  not  go  into  Room  77  the  more  dif 
ficult  it  became  to  resist  the  call  of  adventure.  He 
walked  across  the  hall  and  knocked  sharply  on  the 
door.  No  answer  came.  He  knocked  again.  A 
hotel  maid  approached  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  Are  you  in  the  party?" 

260 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

"What  party?" 

"In  Room  77." 

"No.     I  am  in  78." 

"I  am  very  sorry — but  it  is  against  the  rules  of 
the  house,  sir." 

Tom  had  nothing  to  say  to  the  maid;  so  he 
closed  the  door  of  his  own  room,  conscious  that 
his  actions  must  appear  erratic,  but  not  much  con 
cerned  over  it.  Presently  he  went  out  for  a  walk 
and  did  not  go  to  either  of  his  Boston  clubs. 
This  omission  was  duly  noted  by  the  clever  Mr. 
McWayne's  star  sleuths. 

Tom  returned  to  the  hotel,  feeling  almost  cured. 
He  realized  that  he  had  come  on  a  fool's  errand; 
and  yet  there  was  something  that  told  him  it  was  not 
a  fool's  errand.  It  was  too  elaborate  for  a  practical 
joke.  So  long  as  no  motive  was  apparent  the  mys 
tery  remained  a  mystery;  and  no  mystery  is  laugh 
able — at  least,  not  while  in  the  act  of  mystifying. 

So  he  decided  for  the  tenth  time  to  go  through 
with  his  part,  absurd  or  not.  He  walked  about  the 
lobby,  utterly  unconscious  that  he  was  a  marked 
man.  He  could  not  see  that  the  clerks  and  the  bell 
boys  and  the  two  men  from  the  New  York  agency 
followed  his  movements,  not  only  with  the  liveliest 
curiosity,  but  with  deep  pity. 

All  he  was  doing  was  to  wait  more  or  less  im 
patiently  for  seven  o'clock;  but  impatience  is  so 
natural  a  feeling,  and  comes  so  easily  to  most  human 
beings,  that  it  always  rouses  suspicion.  Tom  did 
not  "act  right"  to  the  watchers.  Any  perfectly 
sane  and  intelligent  man,  accused  of  being  mad,  will 
confirm  the  accusation  if  he  is  watched  for  five 
minutes.  People  who  never  think  and  never  imagine 

261 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

are  never  taken  for  lunatics.     That  nowadays  is 
about  the  only  compensation  for  being  an  ass. 

At  6.56  P.M.  he  walked  into  the  hotel  library  and 
found  that  the  green-plush  arm-chair  in  the  corner 
by  the  window  was  occupied  by  an  elderly  woman. 
It  annoyed  him  because  he  desired  to  sit  in  that 
chair  at  exactly  seven  o'clock.  Absurd  or  not,  the 
problem  became  how  to  get  rid  of  the  old  woman 
quickly  and  without  disturbing  the  peace  or  alarming 
the  office. 

His  mind  worked  logically  enough  for  a  man  under 
observation  for  insanity,  and  his  sense  of  humor 
acted  as  a  safety-valve  for  his  inventiveness.  He 
merely  drew  his  chair  very  close  to  the  startled  old 
lady  and  opened  a  magazine.  He  found  a  poem 
and  began  to  read  it  in  the  exasperating  undertone 
used  by  the  demons  who  have  the  next  seats  to  yours 
at. the  opera. 

Presently  he  began  to  drum  on  his  thigh  with  the 
tips  of  his  fingers,  and  at  regular  intervals  of  ten 
seconds  he  thumped  it  with  his  clenched  fist  bass- 
drumwise.  Every  twenty-five  seconds  he  pulled  out 
his  watch,  looked  at  it,  exclaimed,  "Gracious!" — 
and  blew  his  nose  loudly  and  determinedly. 

Within  two  and  three-quarter  minutes  the  old 
lady  glared  at  him,  rose,  looked  at  the  clock,  glared 
again  at  him  to  make  sure,  and  left  the  room.  In 
the  hall  she  stopped  and  spoke  to  the  young  lady 
who  checked  hats  and  coats  near  the  entrance  of  the 
main  dining-room. 

"I  had  to  leave  the  reading-room.  A  perfectly 
horrible  person  came  in!  He  simply  drove  me  out." 

"Yes,  madam.  He  is  insane.  It  is  a  very  sad 
case." 

262 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

"Goodness!    What  a  narrow — 

"Oh,  he  is  quite  harmless,  madam." 

"It's  a  wonder  a  first-class  hotel,  like  this  claims 
to  be,  allows — " 

"You  are  right!"  agreed  the  wise  young  woman, 
whose  business  was  to  encourage  generosity. 

The  old  lady  went  away,  muttering.  Thomas 
Thome  Merriwether  sat  down  in  the  vacated  chair, 
put  his  hat  between  his  knees,  and  waited.  The 
mahogany  clock  on  the  mantel  presently  began  to 
chime  the  hour  and  Tom  felt  a  pang  of  angry  dis 
appointment.  Nothing  had  happened — except  that 
he  again  had  made  an  ass  of  himself ! 

A  tall,  strongly  built  man  at  that  moment  entered 
the  room,  looked  at  Tom,  saw  the  hat  held  between 
the  knees,  and  turned  away  as  if  the  last  person  in  the 
world  he  wished  to  see  was  young  Mr.  Merriwether. 

Tom  saw  him  stretch  his  hand  toward  a  panel 
in  the  wall.  Instantly  the  room  was  in  darkness. 
It  occurred  to  Tom  that  this  would  be  a  good  way 
to  attack  him;  but  there  instantly  followed  the  re 
flection  that  it  was  not  a  good  place  in  which  to  do 
any  robbing  or  murdering. 

Therefore  young  Merriwether  sat  on  quietly.  He 
felt  something  drop  into  his  hat.  A  faint  odor  of 
sweet  peas  came  to  his  nostrils — the  odor  he  had 
associated  with  his  youth  until  he  began  to  associate 
it  with  her,  and  therefore  with  love. 

This  evanescent  perfume  that  made  vague  mem 
ories  stir  within  him — that  made  him  desire  to  see 
the  woman  who  was  to  be  his  wife — that  made  him 
thrill  obediently  at  the  call  of  adventure — made  him 
feel  that  the  mysterious  man  of  777  Fifth  Avenue  was 
not  a  cheap  charlatan. 

263 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Suddenly  the  light  was  turned  on  again.  Tom 
saw  a  slip  of  paper  within  his  hat,  fished  it  out,  and, 
without  stopping  to  see  what  it  was  or  what  it  said, 
rushed  from  the  room  into  the  corridor. 

He  saw  men  and  women  coming  and  going.  He 
could  not  tell  whether  she  was  among  them  or 
whether  the  man  who  had  entered  the  library — who 
probably  was  the  man  that  put  out  the  light — was 
among  the  crowd.  But  the  sleuths  and  the  bell-boy 
and  the  coat-girl  watched  him.  What  doubt  could 
remain?  In  their  minds  there  was  none. 

Tom  abandoned  the  chase.  The  key  to  the  mys 
tery  eluded  him,  as  usual.  He  was  not  clever 
enough  to  catch  the  mystery-manipulator  in  the  act, 
as  it  were.  He  looked  at  the  paper.  It  was  an 
envelope.  On  it  was  written  in  a  woman's  hand: 

For  T.  M. 

He  opened  the  envelope  and  pulled  out  a  sheet  of 
the  hotel  note-paper,  on  which  he  read,  in  the  same 
handwriting : 

Too  late! 

He  walked  to  the  desk  and  spoke  to  the  room 
clerk. 

"I  must — "  he  began,  but  stopped. 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Merriwether!"  The  clerk  used  the 
voice  and  manner  of  a  man  saying  nice  things  to  a 
child  in  order  to  propitiate  its  mother. 

"About  Room  77  on  the  seventh  floor,"  said  Tom. 

"We  can  give  it  to  you  now,  if  you  wish.  Yes, 
sir." 

' '  What  ?    Has  she—      Is  it  vacant  ?" 

"Given  up  this  very  minute.  If  you'll  wait  until 

264 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

we  send  up  and  see  whether  it  is  ready  to  be  occu 
pied,  I'll—" 

"I'll  take  it;  but  I'd  like  to  go  up  at  once." 

He  wished  to  see  whether  there  was  any  clue  left 
by  the  previous  occupants. 

"Certainly.     Front!" 

Tom  followed  the  bell-boy.  The  room  was  empty 
and  undisturbed.  He  thought  he  smelled  sweet 
peas  and  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  to  think;  but  the 
odor,  which  made  her  recognizable  in  his  dreams  of 
her,  prevented  him  from  thinking  as  you  would 
expect  a  healthy  young  man  to  think.  There  was 
no  sharpness  of  outline  in  the  visions  of  her  seen 
through  the  mist  of  dreams  and  longings. 

He  knew  there  was  a  girl  somewhere  whom  he 
would  marry.  Indeed,  he  often  had  wondered  what 
his  wife  would  be  like.  Every  man,  when  he  en 
deavors  to  look  ahead,  thinks  that  some  day  he  shall 
have  a  wife — the  mother  of  his  children — the  woman 
whose  mere  existence  will  influence  his  life  more  than 
anything  else  in  the  world;  whose  love  will  make 
him  a  different  man;  whose  necessities  will  give  to 
him  an  utterly  different  point  of  view. 

Our  lives  depend  on  our  point  of  view;  and  Tom 
knew  that  his  point  of  view  would  be  utterly  changed 
by  this  girl  he  had  never  seen.  Would  she  be  the 
girl  the  man  in  777  Fifth  Avenue  said  she  would  be? 
Was  she  the  mysterious  person  with  whom,  of  course, 
he  was  not  in  love,  but  with  whom  he  might  fall  in 
love — adventuress  or  not?  His  love  of  love  had  not 
yet  changed  into  love  of  somebody ;  but  he  was  keen 
to  enter  into  a  definite  love-affair  with  a  concrete 
being,  and  he  rather  suspected  that  this  affair  was 
being  stage-managed  for  his  benefit. 
18  265 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

He  would  forgive  everything  so  long  as  in  the  end 
something  happened — something  in  which  there  was 
a  girl,  whether  or  not  she  was  the  girl.  What  most 
irritated  him  was  the  indefiniteness  of  the  mystery 
so  far.  The  spice  of  danger;  the  tragical  possibili 
ties;  the  lure  of  adventure;  the  call  of  the  unusual; 
the  attraction  of  the  unknown  and  therefore  of  the 
interesting — were  no  longer  quite  enough.  The 
glimpse  of  a  face — of  a  living  face — and  a  hand  to 
shake,  a  waist  to  clasp  and  lips  to  kiss — these  things 
he  now  desired. 

His  irritability  over  his  failure  to  develop  an  ad 
venture  in  Boston  grew  keener  until  it  became  anger. 
He  would  have  it  out  once  for  all  with  the  mysterious 
man  at  777  Fifth  Avenue. 

He  went  down-stairs,  paid  his  bill,  and  took  the 
midnight  train  for  New  York. 


VII 

Some  men  are  so  picturesque  that  they  do  not 
need  publicity  agents,  and  so  intelligent  that 
they  wish  to  be  let  alone  by  the  public  prints. 
E.  H.  Merriwether  was  one.  He  employed  the  ablest 
experts  for  his  corporations  and  they  got  more  than 
their  share  of  publicity;  but  for  himself — nothing. 
Possibly  he  realized  that  ungratified  curiosity  is  a 
valuable  asset;  and,  of  course,  he  knew  that  in  a 
democracy  the  less  a  man  raises  his  head  above  the 
level  of  the  mass  the  better  it  will  be  for  his  comfort. 

He  took  pains  to  make  it  plain  that  he  cared  only 
for  his  work,  because  that  proved  he  had  no  thoughts 
for  mere  money-making;  and,  since  he  was  not  in 
terested  in  money-making,  he  could  not  be  primarily 

266 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

concerned  with  despoiling  the  public — which,  in 
turn,  clearly  proved  he  was  not  dangerous.  And,  of 
course,  the  more  he  kept  himself  out  of  the  papers  the 
more  the  papers  wanted  to  see  him  in  their  hospit 
able  columns.  Everything  he  did  or  thought  was, 
therefore,  news.  Anecdotes  about  him  were  so  hard 
to  get  that  the  brightest  minds  in  the  profession  man 
ufactured  a  few.  They  had  to  be  very  good  anec 
dotes — and  they  were. 

To  the  metropolitan  reporters,  however,  E.  H. 
Merriwether  was  known  to  be  mute,  dumb,  silent, 
constitutionally  incapable  of  speech,  and,  besides, 
devoid  of  vocal  cords.  His  office  was  always  free 
from  reporters,  because  they  had  learned  to  save 
themselves  time  by  the  simple  expedient  of  writing 
their  interviews  with  him  in  their  own  offices,  after 
this  fashion : 

Mr.  Merriwether  refused  to  discuss  the  matter.  Neither 
confirmation  nor  denial  could  be  obtained  at  his  office. 

The  financial  editors  of  the  newspapers  fared  no 
better.  He  was  never  too  busy  to  see  them;  but  all 
news  about  his  work  came  from  his  bankers. 

On  the  same  day  that  Tom  went  to  Boston,  a 
young  man  went  to  the  Merriwether  offices  in  the 
Transcontinental  Trust  Company  Building.  A  stout, 
rather  high  railing  fenced  off  the  bookkeepers'  room 
from  the  general  and  unwelcome  public. 

At  a  small,  flat  desk  near  the  gate  sat,  not  a  freckle- 
faced  boy,  but  a  man,  powerful  of  build,  keen-eyed 
and  quick-muscled.  He  was  writing  a  letter  on  a 
very  good  quality  of  note-paper.  He  said:  "Well?" 
—but  kept  on  writing.  He  did  not  look  up.  This 
always  discouraged  strangers,  by  making  them  feel 

267 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

their  utter  insignificance.  The  effect  on  millionaire 
magnates,  who  similarly  found  themselves  ignored, 
also  was  salutary. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether,"  said  the 
young  man,  pleasantly  and  unimpressed. 

The  gate-keeper  wrote  two  paragraphs  and  then, 
still  writing,  asked,  wearily: 

"Got  an  appointment?" 

"No;   but—" 

The  over-mature  office-boy,  in  one  breath  and  in 
a  voice  that  dripped  insolence,  said,  still  without 
looking  up: 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  him  about?  He  is  very 
busy.  Cannot  possibly  see  any  one  to-day.  Good 
day!" 

There  was  a  laugh,  not  at  all  ironical,  or  in  the 
nature  of  an  exaggerated  and  audible  sneer,  but  full 
of  amusement;  and  then  the  stranger  without  the 
gate  said: 

"When  I  tell  you  what  I  am  you  will  bring  Mr.  E. 
H.  Merriwether  to  me." 

The  voice  was  not  menacing  at  all  or  cold,  but  there 
was  an  assurance  about  it  that  made  the  Merri 
wether  hireling  look  up.  He  saw  a  young  man,  of 
about  thirty,  with  very  intelligent,  gray-blue  eyes, 
a  straight,  well-modeled  nose,  arid  a  determined  chin. 
His  square  shoulders  and  general  air  of  muscular 
strength  made  him  look  as  if  he  could  give  as  good  an 
account  of  himself  in  a  rough-and-tumble  fight  as  in 
a  battle  of  wits. 

The  Merriwether  gateman  felt  his  entire  being  per 
meated  by  a  feeling  of  hostility.  This  was  neither  a 
crank  to  turn  over  to  a  complaisant  police  nor  an 
alms-seeker  to  be  shooed  away ;  nor  yet  a  millionaire 

268 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

in  good  standing.  He  must  be,  therefore,  a  reporter 
of  the  new  school  made  possible  by  the  eccentricities 
of  the  Administration  in  Washington. 

"My  good  James,"  said  the  new-school  reporter, 
with  a  mocking  superciliousness,  "I  would  see  your 
boss.  Be  expeditious." 

The  gate-keeper,  whose  name  was  not  James  but 
Doyle,  flushed  dangerously ;  but  his  wages  were  high, 
and  he  forced  himself  to  keep  his  temper  under 
control.  For  all  that,  his  voice  shook  as  he  said: 

"If  you  have  no  appointment,  you  ought  to  know 
it's  no  use.  No  stranger  from  a  newspaper  ever  sees 
Mr.  Merriwether.  I — I'm  sorry!"  Here  Doyle 
gulped.  Then  he  finished:  "Good  day!" — and  re 
sumed,  his  writing. 

The  reporter  said,  "Look  at  me!"  so  sharply  that 
Doyle  in  a  flash  pushed  back  his  chair,  jumped  to 
his  feet,  and  looked  pugnaciously  at  the  man  who 
dared  to  give  commands  in  E.  H.  Merriwether 's 
office. 

"My  Celtic  friend,"  pursued  the  reporter,  in  a 
voice  of  such  cold-blooded  vindictiveness  that  Doyle 
listened  with  both  astonishment  and  respect,  "for 
years  the  domestics  of  this  office  have  been  rude  and 
impolite  to  my  profession.  Mr.  Merriwether  never 
cared  how  angry  reporters  might  feel  or  what  they 
said  about  him;  but  to-day  I  am  the  one  who  does 
not  care,  and  E.  H.  Merriwether  is  the  man  who  is 
vitally  concerned.  I  don't  give  a  damn  whether  he 
sees  me  or  not.  And  as  for  you,  in  order  to  avenge 
the  poor  chaps  to  whom  you  have  been  intelligently 
rude,  I,  to  whom  you  have  been  unintelligently  im 
polite,  shall  have  you  fired.  I've  got  E.  H.  Merri 
wether  where  I  want  him.  If  I  can  end  your  boss  I 

269 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

can  end  your  job — can't  I?  Oh  no,  Alexander!  I 
am  not  crazy.  I  simply  have  the  power.  It  was 
bound  to  happen,  for  Waterloo  comes  to  all  great 
men  who  are  not  clever  enough  to  die  at  the  right 
time.  Now  you  go  and  get  McWayne — and  be  quick 
about  it!" 

Doyle  at  times  saw  things  through  the  top  of  his 
head,  which  was  red.  He  said,  a  bit  thickly: 

"When  you  tell  me  in  plain  English,  so  I  can 
understand — " 

"You  are  not  paid  to  understand;  you  are  paid 
to  use  common  sense  and  discrimination.  You  go 
to  McWayne  and  say  to  him  a  reporter  is  here  and 
wishes  to  speak  to  him  about  a  sad  Merriwether 
family  matter." 

Doyle  knew  from  the  office  gossip  that  something 
was  supposed  to  be  wrong  with  Tom  Merriwether; 
so,  his  heart  overflowing  with  anger  because  chance 
had  put  the  one  weapon  in  the  hands  of  an  insolent 
newspaper  man,  Doyle  went  off  to  tell  the  boss's 
private  secretary.  Presently  McWayne,  walking 
quickly,  came  from  an  inner  office,  and  asked: 

"You  wish  to  see  me?" 

"No!"  answered  the  reporter,  flatly. 

"Then—  "  began  McWayne. 

"I  don't  wish  to  see  you.  I  wish  to  see  if  you  have 
the  sense  to  understand  that  I  wish  to  do  Mr.  E.  H. 
Merriwether  the  favor  of  letting  him  talk  to  me.  Do 
you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  tell 
Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether?" 

The  reporter  looked  as  though  he  hoped  McWayne 
would  say  no.  Reporters  did  not  usually  look  that 
way;  therefore  McWayne  was  perturbed.  He  re 
plied,  with  a  polite  anxiety: 

270 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

"If  you  please — ' 

"Tell  Mr.  Merriwether  that  I  wish  to  see  him 
about  his  son's  marriage.  Tell  him  that  if  he  does 
not  wish  to  talk  about  it,  he  needn't.  You  might 
add  that  there  is  absolutely  no  use  in  his  trying  to 
keep  it  out  of  the  newspapers.  Make  that  plain  to 
him,  McWayne." 

McWayne  did  not  dare  deny  the  marriage.  Tom 
was,  alas !  capable  of  even  worse  things.  He  did  the 
only  thing  possible  while  there  was  still  a  chance  to 
suppress  the  news;  he  said: 

"And  you  represent  which  paper,  please?" 

Reporters  do  not  always  know  why  or  how  news 
is  suppressed,  nor  the  price;  but  this  reporter 
laughed  good-naturedly,  and  replied: 

"  McWayne,  the  trouble  with  you  Irish  is  that  you 
are  so  infernally  clever  that  plain  jackasses  like  my 
self  are  prepared  for  you.  I  represent  myself  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  paid  to  suppress.  No  blackmail 
here;  no  threats;  nothing  except  amiability  and 
good-will.  Have  you  begun  to  accumulate  a  few  sus 
picions  that  your  taciturn  boss  is  going  to  talk  to 
me?" 

"I'll  see!"  promised  McWayne,  non-committally ; 
but  he  was  so  perturbed  that  he  could  not  help  show 
ing  it. 

Doyle,  who  had  made  a  pretense  of  resuming  his 
letter- writing,  noticed  it,  and  felt  uncomfortable. 

"And — say,  McWayne,"  pursued  the  reporter, 
"could  you  let  a  fellow  have  a  photograph  or  two? 
You  know  we've  got  some,  but  we'd  prefer  to  publish 
those  you  think  the  family  consider  the  best.  Some 
people  are  queer  that  way." 

McWayne  shook  his  head  and  went  away,  con- 
271 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

vinced  of  the  worst.  He  returned  and  beckoned 
to  the  reporter,  who  thereupon  said,  sharply,  to 
Doyle: 

" Open  the  door — you!  Quick!"  And  Doyle,  who 
saw  McWayne  beckoning,  had  to  do  it. 

Four  hundred  and  seventeen  reporters  were 
avenged ! 

Doyle  was  so  angry  that  he  was  full  of  aches.  He 
was  tempted  to  throw  up  his  job.  Then  he  hoped 
E.  H.  Merri wether,  who  was  a  very  great  man,  would 
order  him  to  throw  the  insolent  dog  out  of  the  office. 
Doyle  would  earn  a  bonus. 

E.  H.  Merriwether,  autocrat  of  fifteen  thousand 
miles  of  railroad,  fearless  fighter,  iron-nerved  stock 
gambler,  but,  alas!  also  a  father,  was  seated  at  his 
desk.  He  turned  to  the  reporter  the  inscrutable 
poker-face  of  his  class : 

"You  wished  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  reporter,  and  waited;  two 
could  play  at  that  game.  The  great  financier  was 
compelled  to  ask: 

"About  what?" 

"About  what  McWayne  told  you."  The  reporter 
spoke  unemotionally. 

"About  some  rumor  concerning  my  son?" 

"No,  sir." 

"No?"   E.  H.  Merriwether  looked  surprised. 

"No.  I  wished  to  know  what  statement  you  de 
sire  to  make  about  your  son's  engagement  and  mar 
riage.  If  you  do  not  care  to  say  anything  we  shall 
not  publish  any  fake  interview,  no  matter  what 
opinion  I  personally  may  form  as  to  the  real  state  of 
your  feelings." 

"I  take  it  you  are  from  one  of  the  yellow  papers, 
372 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

young  man?"  E.  H.  Merriwether  spoke  coldly;  but, 
within,  his  heart- tragedy  was  being  enacted. 

"You  usually  take  what  you  wish  if  it  isn't  nailed 
down,  I  have  heard;  but  that,  doubtless,  is  one  of 
the  slanders  that  automatically  grow  up  about  a 
great  man,  sir,"  said  the  reporter,  without  the  shadow 
of  a  smile  or  frown. 

"If  I  am  mistaken  about  the  newspaper  you  rep 
resent — "  Here  Mr.  Merriwether  paused,  as  if  to 
allow  the  young  man  to  introduce  himself;  but  the 
young  man  said : 

"If  I  told  you  the  name  of  the  newspaper  that 
honors  itself  by  playing  fair  with  you,  I  suspect  you 
would  set  in  motion  the  machinery  that  you — er — 
men  of  large  affairs  use  to  suppress  news.  You 
couldn't  reach  my  city  editor,  who  is  a  poor  man 
with  a  family  of  eight,  or  the  reporter,  who  is  penni 
less;  but  you  could  reach  the  owner,  who  is  a  mil 
lionaire.  This  is  my  first  big  story  in  New  York  and 
it  will  make  me  professionally.  It  means  a  lot  to 
me!" 

"About  how  much  does  it  mean  to  you,  young 
man?"  asked  E.  H.  Merriwether,  with  a  particularly 
polite  curiosity. 

"Speaking  in  language  that  should  be  intelligible 
to  you  and  using  the  terms  by  which  you  measure 
all  things  down  here — "  He  paused,  and  then  said, 
bluntly,  "You  mean  in  cash,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  should  say,  Mr.  Merriwether,  that  this 
story  is  worth  to  me —  Let  me  see !"  And  he  began 
to  count  on  his  fingers,  like  a  woman.  This  habit 
inexpressibly  angers  men  who  find  no  trouble  in  re 
membering  numbers  of  dollars.  "I  should  say,  Mr. 

273 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Merriwether,  that  it  is  worth  about  three  thousand 
two  hundred  and  eighty-six — millions  of  dollars.  If 
I  am  to  stop  being  a  decent  newspaper  man  to  be 
come  a  blackmailer  and  general  damned  fool  I'd 
want  to  make  enough  to  endow  all  my  pet  charities 
and  carry  out  a  series  of  rather  expensive  experi 
ments  in  philanthropy." 

"But—  "  began  the  magnate. 

"No,  sir,"  interrupted  the  reporter,  "no  money, 
please.  Just  assume  that  I  am  a  damned  fool  and, 
therefore,  refuse  to  consider  a  bribe." 

"I  have  not  bribed  you,"  suggested  E.  H.  Merri 
wether,  calmly.  His  eyes  never  left  the  reporter's 
face. 

"Then  I  misjudged  you,  and  I  apologize  abjectly; 
but  permit  me  to  continue  to  be  an  ass  and  blind  to 
money.  What  about  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether, 
only  son  and  heir  of  the  railroad  king  of  the  South 
west?" 

"Well,  what  about  him?"  The  face  of  E.  H.  Mer 
riwether  showed  only  what  you  might  call  a  perfunc 
tory  curiosity.  The  reporter  looked  at  him  admir 
ingly.  After  a  pause,  he  asked : 

"Do  you  know  her?" 

"Do  you?" 

"Then  you  don't!"  exclaimed  the  reporter,  tri 
umphantly.  "This  is  better  than  I  had  hoped." 

"Better?" 

"Certainly;  it  means  a  better  introductory  article. 
The  first  of  the  series  will  be:  'To  whom  is  Tom 
Merriwether  engaged?'  Think  of  it,  sir,"  he  said, 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  true  artist,  "the  heir  of 
the  Merriwether  millions!  By  the  way,  could  you 
tell  offhand  how  many  millions  I  might  safely  say?" 

274 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

Whatever  Mr.  Merri wether  may  have  thought,  he 
merely  said,  with  the  cold  finality  that  often  imposes 
on  young  reporters : 

"  Young  man,  if  you  begin  your  career  by  being 
vulgar  your  ruin  will  be  of  your  own  doing." 

"My  dear  sir,  vulgarity  never  ruined  any  career. 
All  the  great  men  of  history  were  at  the  beginning 
accused  of  hopeless  vulgarity — by  those  on  whom 
they  trod.  I  tell  you  it  is  not  vulgarity  that  prompts 
me,  but  mastery  of  the  technic  of  my  trade.  Do  you 
care  to  have  me  tell  you  about  my  article?" 

What  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  really  wished  to 
hear  was  that  Tom  was  not  in  love — that  he  was  not 
on  the  verge  of  brutally  assassinating  all  the  hopes 
and  dreams  of  a  fond  father.  What  he  said  to  the 
unspeakable  reporter  was: 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  start  with  this  basis — my  knowledge  of 
your  son's  engagement." 

"Where  did  you  get  that  knowledge?" 

"One  of  the  few  things  a  reporter  is  incapable  of 
doing  is  betraying  a  confidence.  To  tell  you  the 
source  of  my  information  would  be  that.  Starting 
with  that  one  fact,  my  problem  is  to  make  that  one 
fact  so  important  as  to  enable  me  to  write  several 
thousand  words.  To  justify  this  I  must  make  your 
son  very  important.  He  is  not  really  very  important/, 
but  you  are.  I  shall  slightly  over-accentuate  here 
and  there" — he  waved  his  hand  in  the  air,  and  re 
peated,  dreamily — ' '  here  and  there !  You  will  be  the 
Napoleon  of  railroads,  the  Von  Moltke  of  the  ticker, 
doer  of  deeds  and  upbuilder,  indisputably  the  great 
est  captain  of  industry  that  America  has  yet  pro 
duced!" 

275 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Heavens!"  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  imperturb 
able  little  magnate. 

"You  are  a  stunning  study  for  a  novelist.  Yours 
is  the  great  romance  of  the  American  business  man ! 
Having  made  you  romantic,  I  wave  my  magician's 
wand  and  quadruple  your  millions.  Yours,  my  dear 
sir — if  you  don't  happen  to  know  it — is  one  of  the 
great  fortunes  of  the  world!  You've  got  Croesus 
skinned  to  death  and  John  D.  whining  over  his  lost 
pre-eminence!" 

"Now  look  here — "  interjected  E.  H.  Merriwether, 
sternly;  but  the  reporter  retorted,  earnestly: 

"Hold  your  horses!"  And  the  great  millionaire 
did.  The  young  man  continued  in  his  enthusiastic 
way:  "It  is  much  to  have  the  hundreds  of  Merri 
wether  millions,  but  it  is  infinitely  more  to  have  all 
the  Merriwether  millions  and  such  a  father  and 
youth.  I  thus  make  Tom,  who  is  really  of  no  im 
portance,  of  even  greater  importance  than  the  great 
E.  H.  Merriwether.  Do  I  know  my  business?"  And 
he  bowed  in  the  general  direction  of  the  elder  Mer 
riwether. 

"I  begin  to  suspect, "replied  the  elder  Merriwether, 
"that  you  do." 

He  was  watching  the  reporter  closely.  He  always 
had  found  it  profitable  to  let  men  talk  on.  A  man 
who  talks  is  apt  to  show  you  what  he  is;  and  that 
furnishes  to  you  the  best  available  weapon.  You 
also  may  learn  when  it  is  better  not  to  fight. 

"When  it  comes  to  picturesque  writing  about 
people  I  do  not  know,  I  can  assure  you,  Mr.  Merri 
wether,"  the  young  man  said,  modestly,  "that  I 
haven't  an  equal  in  the  United  States.  In  your  case 
I  shall  not  be  handicapped  by  either  facts  or  knowl- 

276 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

edge,  which  are  always  fatal  to  the  creative  faculty. 
I  shall  be  free — absolutely  free  to  write!" 

Mr.  Merriwether  permitted  himself  a  frown  in 
order  to  conceal  his  uneasiness.  This  young  man 
was  talking  like  a  humorist.  The  eyes  were  intelli 
gent  and  fearless.  The  combination  was  formidable. 

"Your  theory  has  doubtless  many  supporters 
among  your  colleagues." 

"There  are,"  admitted  the  reporter,  cheerfully, 
"other  bright  young  creative  artists  on  our  staff. 
Well,  I  proceed  to  make  your  son  a  paragon — a  clean- 
minded,  decent,  manly  young  millionaire." 

"Which  he  is!"  interjected  Mr.  Merriwether, 
sternly. 

"Of  course!  I  know  it.  Have  no  fear  on  that 
score.  I'd  make  him  all  that  even  if  he  wasn't.  I 
proceed  to  draw  attention — with  a  cleverness  I'd  call 
devilish  if  it  wasn't  my  own — to  the  strange  and,  on 
the  whole,  agreeable  vein  of  romanticism  in  the 
Merriwether  nature.  There  you  are,  a  hard-headed 
man  of  affairs,  whose  name  the  world  associates 
with  great  engineering  deeds  and  great  high-finance 
misdeeds !  You  are — do  you  know  what  ? — a  poet ! — 
a  wonderful  poet  whose  lines  are  of  steel,  whose 
numbers  are  of  tonnage,  whose  song  is  chanted  by 
the  ten  thousand  purring  wheels  of  your  tireless 
cars." 

' '  My  car- wheels  are  lubricated.  They  don't  purr, ' * 
mildly  objected  the  railroad  poet. 

"They  do  in  my  story,"  said  the  reporter,  firmly. 
"And  to  prove  it  I'll  quote  some  striking  lines  from 
one  of  those  unknown  books  we  great  writers  always 
have  on  tap.  Your  romantic  nature  expresses  itself 
in  the  creation  of  an  empire  in  the  alkali  desert. 

277 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

You  have  written  an  epic  on  the  map  of  America — 
in  green!" 

"That  sounds  good  to  me,"  said  Mr.  E.  H.  Merri- 
wether,  with  the  detached  air  of  a  critic  of  literature. 

He  did  not  know  just  how  to  win  this  young  man's 
silence — perhaps  by  letting  him  talk  himself  out  of 
creative  literature ;  perhaps  by  the  inauguration  of  a 
molasses  diet  at  once ! 

"Thank  you!  Your  son  Tom's  romance  is  in  his 
unusual  love-affair!  This  young  man,  the  most 
eligible  bachelor  in  the  world — handsome,  rich,  a 
fastidious  artist  in  feminine  beauty,  with  a  heart 
that  has  kept  itself  inviolate — pretty  swell  word 
that? — in-vi-o-late — all  these  years,  opens  at  her 
sweet  voice.  We  alone  are  able  to  announce  the 
engagement.  High  society  is  more  than  interested — 
more  than  startled.  As  thinks  society,  so  thinks 
the  shop-girl;  and  there  are  fifty  million  of  her. 
What  society  is  incinerating  itself  with  desire  to  find 
out  is:  To  whom  is  Tom  Merriwether  engaged? 
Will  our  fair  readers  devour  the  article?  I  leave  it 
to  you,  Mr.  Merriwether!"  The  young  man  looked 
inquiringly  at  Mr..  Merriwether. 

"I'd  read  it  myself,"  said  Mr.  Merriwether,  very 
impressively.  "I  couldn't  help  it!"  You  could  see 
that  literature  had  triumphed  over  the  stock-ticker. 
A  great  diplomatist  was  lost  in  a  great  money-maker. 

"Thank  you!  And  what  do  you  find  at  the  end 
of  the  article?  What?  Why,  a  nice  psychological 
little  paragraph  to  the  effect  that  we  propose  to 
print  the  name  of  the  one  woman  who,  of  all  the 
tens  of  thousands  who  have  tried,  has  won  the  heart 
of  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether,  whose  father  you 
have  the  honor  to  be.  We  refrain,  in  order  to  have 

278 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

the  parents  of  the  young  people  formally  announce 
the  engagement.  By  doing  this  we  get  the  full  value 
of  the  to-be-continued-in-our-next  suspense,  for  the 
first  time  utilized  in  a  news  story;  and  we  also  in 
crease  our  reputation  for  gentlemanly  conservatism, 
which  prevents  the  refined  reporter  of  the — of  my 
paper  from  intruding  into  a  family  affair." 

"Will  your  paper  be  damned  fool  enough  to — " 
began  E.  H.  Merri wether,  intentionally  skeptical. 

"It  is  not  damned  folly  to  extract  all  the  juice 
contained  in  the  scoop  of  the  century — it  is  technical 
skill  of  a  very  high  order.  Now  what  happens? 
My  esteemed  contemporaries,  morning  and  evening, 
chuck  a  fit  and  bounce  their  society  editors.  They 
then  rush  for  the  telephone  and  despatch  their 
strongest  photographers,  sharpest  sleuths,  and  entire 
dictagraph  corps  to  the  scene.  They  can't  find 
Tom — because,  as  you  know,  he  is  in — he  is  out  of 
town.  And  they  can't  find  her — because  I  haven't 
said  who  she  is.  There  remains  you!" 

"That  won't  do  them  any  good,"  said  Mr.  E.  H. 
Merriwether,  decisively;  but  he  shuddered. 

"Pre-cisely!  I  banked  on  that.  But,  even  if  you 
did  see  them,  what  could  you  tell  them?  Deny  what 
is  bound  to  be  confirmed  in  the  next  issue  of  my 
paper?  You  know  better  than  to  acquire  a  reputa 
tion  for  lying  in  the  newspapers.  No,  siree!  Your 
game  is  to  deny  yourself  to  all  inquirers  and  say 
nothing.  My  esteemed  contemporaries  have  now 
but  one  desire — to  wit:  to  print  the  name  and  pub 
lish  the  portrait  of  your  son's  fiancee.  Of  course  you 
see  what  happens  then,  don't  you?" 

The  reporter  looked  at  the  iron-hearted  E.  H. 
Merriwether,  with  such  pity  in  his  eyes  that  the 

279 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

great  little  czar  of  the  Southwestern  Railroad  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  realized  he  was  merely  a  man 
—a  human  being;  an  ordinary,  every-day  father; 
one  drop  in  the  vast  ocean;  one  of  the  crowd  tem 
porarily  aboveground  and  therefore  exposed  to  the 
same  sorrows  and  troubles  and  sore  vexations  as  all 
mankind.  His  millions,  his  position  in  the  world,  his 
great  work,  his  undoubted  genius — could  not  avail 
even  to  rid  him  of  annoyance.  Can  you  imagine 
John  D.  Rockefeller  living  on  Staten  Island  in  June 
and  unable  to  buy  mosquito-netting  —  price,  five 
cents  a  yard? 

"What  will  happen?"  asked  the  great  millionaire, 
who  was  also  a  father. 

"My  intelligent  colleagues,  of  course,  will  look  for 
the  lady.  Where  there  is  a  strong  demand  the  supply 
automatically  offers  itself  for  consumption.  And 
what  will  the  seven  hundred  and  fifty  alert  young 
men,  with  great  capacities  for  fictional  art,  who  are 
temporarily  assisting  actress-ladies  and  self-paying 
authoresses  and  unprinted  poetesses  and  fertilizer- 
manufacturers'  unmarried  daughters,  do?  What 
will  those  estimable  young  artists,  miscalled  press 
agents,  do  when  they  encounter  the  demand  for 
Tom's  fiancee's  photograph?  What  except  'Here 
she  is!' — six  thousand  words,  thirty-two  poses,  and 
a  facsimile  of  a  love-letter  or  two,  to  prove  it! 
And  then — chorus-ladies,  poetesses,  fair  divorcees 
about  to  honor  the  vaudeville — "  The  reporter 
stopped — he  had  seen  the  look  on  E.  H.  Merri- 
wether's  face.  He  felt  sorry.  "But  it  is  true,"  he 
said,  defensively. 

"Yes!"     Tom's  poor  rich  father  felt  cold  all  over. 

The  reporter  pursued,  more  quietly:  "You  know 

280 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

the  ingenuity  of  my  colleagues,  the  great  American 
respect  for  a  millionaire's  privacy,  and  the  national 
sense  of  humor.  Will  your  son's  love-affair  be  dis 
cussed?  Will  it  be  discussed  with  the  gentlemanly 
reticence  and  innate  delicacy  of  feeling  of  my  story?" 

Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  never  before  realized  that 
the  law  against  homicide  was  even  more  absurd  than 
an  Interstate  Commerce  Commission  order;  but  he 
had  to  bow  to  the  inevitable.  He  was  beginning  to 
understand  how  Napoleon  felt  on  the  deck  of  the 
Seller ophon  when  on  the  way  to  St.  Helena.  Do  you 
remember  the  picture  ?  He  nodded — not  dejectedly, 
but  also  not  far  from  it. 

"Well,  in  a  day  or  two  or  three,  according  to  con 
ditions;  we  come  out  with  it.  We  print  the  lady's 
name  and  her  portrait — possibly  not  the  best  of  all 
her  photographs,  but  the  only  one  I  could — " 

"Who  is  she?"  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  reporter's 
victim. 

Instantly  the  reporter's  face  became  very  serious. 
"I  feared  so,  Mr.  Merriwether,"  he  said,  very  quietly. 

"Look  here,  my  boy!"  interrupted  Mr.  Merri 
wether,  with  an  earnestness  that  had  in  it  a  threat. 
"I  don't  know  what  your  game  is  and  I  don't  care. 
I'll  admit  right  now  that  you  are  a  very  clever  young 
man  and  probably  not  a  crook;  but  I  tell  you  calmly, 
quietly,  without  any  threats,  that  you  are  not 
going  to  publish  any  damned-fool  article  about  my 
family  in  any  paper  in  New  York." 

The  reporter  rose  and  looked  straight  into  the 
unblinking  eyes  of  the  great  financier.  Then  he  said, 
slowly,  and,  the  old  fellow  admitted,  distinctly 
impressively : 

"And  I  tell  you,  twice  as  quietly  and  ten  times  as 
19  281 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

calmly,  without  any  fool  threats,  that  all  the  daily 
newspapers  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  Chicago, 
San  Francisco,  Boston,  and  ten  thousand  other  towns 
in  the  United  States,  Canada,  Mexico,  the  Canal 
Zone,  and  countries  in  the  Postal  Union,  are  going  to 
publish  articles  about  your  son  Tom's  engagement, 
and  later  on  about  his  marriage.  Understand  once 
for  all,  that  there  are  some  things  all  your  millions 
and  all  your  will-power  cannot  do.  This  is  one  of 
them.  It  is  the  penalty  of  being  a  public  character — 
or,  if  you  prefer,  of  being  an  exceptionally  great  man. 
Do  I  understand  that  you  have  nothing  to  say  about 
your  son's  coming  marriage?" 

E.  H.  Merriwether  in  less  than  five  seconds  thought 
of  more  than  five  thousand  possibilities,  all  in  con 
nection  with  his  son's  marriage.  Then  he  said,  very 
slowly,  fighting  for  time  and  a  chance  to  escape: 

"My  son  will  marry  whenever  he  and  the  young 
lady  chiefly  interested  judge  fit  to  do  so.  He  and  I 
are  in  perfect  accord,  as  always."  Mr.  Merriwether 
was  looking  into  the  too-fearless  and  too-intelligent 
gray-blue  eyes  of  the  reporter.  Then  he  did  what 
he  did  not  often  do  in  his  Wall  Street  affrays — he 
capitulated.  "Will  you  give  me  your  word  that 
you  will  not  use  for  publication  what  I  am  about 
to  tell  you?" 

"No,  sir,  I  won't!"  emphatically  replied  the  re 
porter.  "You  might  tell  me  something  I  already 
know  and  then  you'd  always  think  I  had  broken 
my  word.  I  will  not  pledge  myself  not  to  print 
the  name  of  your  daughter-in-law-to-be;  but  any 
thing  that  concerns  you  personally  or  your  at 
titude  toward  your  son's  finacee,  or  hints  of  a  family 
quarrel — or  those  things  that  offend  a  sensitive  man 

282 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

— I  promise  not  to  print.  You  have  some  rights; 
but  I  also  owe  certain  things  to  myself  and  my  paper. 
I've  been  frank  with  you.  You  can  be  frank  with 
me  if  you  wish.  I  put  it  up  to  you." 

Mr.  Merriwether,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  said: 
* '  Look  here !  I  don't  know  anything  about  my  son's 
engagement.  I  cannot  swear  he  is  not  engaged,  but 
I  don't  know  that  he  is.  It  follows  that  I  do  not 
know  the  young  lady.  You  don't  have  to  print 
that,  do  you?" 

The  reporter  gazed  on  the  financier  meditatively. 
Presently,  instead  of  answering  the  question,  he 
asked : 

"Have  you  had  no  suspicion  of  any  romance?" 

"Well" — and  it  was  plain  that  E.  H.  Merriwether 
was  telling  the  truth,  having  made  up  his  mind  to 
that  policy  as  being  the  wisest — "well,  I  have  of  late 
suspected  that  such  a  thing  might  be  possible.  It 
is,  I  will  confess  to  you,  a  terrible  predicament, 
because  a  man  naturally  cherishes  certain  hopes  for 
his  only  son."  On  Mr.  Merriwether's  face  there  was 
a  quite  human  look  of  suffering. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  reporter,  apologetically,  as 
though  offering  an  excuse  for  a  friend's  misdeed — 
"of  course  a  man  in  love  is  not  always  wise." 

"No.  And  though  I  have  no  intention  or  desire 
to  bribe  you,  and  though  I  would  not  presume  to 
interfere  with  you  in  your  professional  activities 
or  influence  you  by  pecuniary  considerations,  you 
will  pardon  me  for  suggesting — " 

The  reporter  did  not  let  him  go  on.  He  rose  and 
said,  with  real  dignity: 

"Mr.  Merriwether,  suppose  we  drop  the  matter 
right  here?" 

283 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"  You  mean?" 

"I  will  not  print  any  story  yet — on  one  condition/* 

"Name  it.     I  think  likely  I  can  meet  it." 

"Give  me  your  promise  that  you  will  give  me  an 
interview  the  next  time  I  come  to  see  you.  It  may 
be  in  a  day  or  two,  or  a  week.  I  don't  promise  not 
to  print  the  story,  you  understand,  but  it  will  give 
you  time  to — well,  to  see  your  son." 

E.  H.  Merriwether  held  out  his  hand  and  said: 
"I  will  see  you  any  time  you  come.  But  let  me  say, 
as  an  older  man,  that  if  you  should  suffer  any  loss 
by  not  printing — " 

"Oh  no — I  shall  not  suffer.  I  propose  to  print  my 
story.  I  am  simply  deferring  publication;  but  I 
thank  you  for  the  offer  you  were  going  to  make. 
It  shows  more  consideration  and,  therefore,  far 
greater  common  sense  than  most  men  in  your  posi 
tion  habitually  display  before  a  reporter.  I'll  do 
even  more — I'll  give  you  a  friendly  tip. "  He  stopped 
talking  and  looked  doubtfully  at  E.  H.  Merriwether. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Merriwether,  with  a  re 
markable  mixture  of  gratitude,  dignity,  and  anxiety. 
"I  am  listening." 

"Find  out  why  he  goes  to  777  Fifth  Avenue. 
There  are  some  things  a  really  intelligent  father, 
poor  or  rich,  should — "  He  caught  himself. 

"Please  finish,  my  boy!"  cried  the  great  little  man, 
almost  entreatingly. 

"There  are  just  a  few  things" — the  reporter  was 
speaking  very  slowly  and  his  voice  was  lowered — 
"which  an  intelligent  father  does  not  trust  to  others 
—not  even  to  the  most  loyal  confidential  men — 
things  that  should  be  done  by  the  father  himself. 
The  number  is  777  Fifth  Avenue!" 

284 


CHEAP   AT    A    MILLION 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.—" 

"William  Tully,"  said  the  reporter. 

"Mr.  Tully,  I  thank  you.  I  think  you  are  throw 
ing  away  time  and  brains  in  your  present  position, 
and  if  you  should  ever — " 

"Thank  you,  sir.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  shall  not 
bother  you  by — ' 

"But  I  mean  it,"  said  E.  H.  Merriwether. 

The  reporter  smiled  and  said,  "If  you  knew  how 
often  my  fortune  has  been  made  by  men  whose 
story  I  have  not  printed  you'd  be  deaf,  too." 

"Young  man,  I  sometimes  forget  favors,  but  not 
the  possession  of  brains.  I  need  them  in  my  busi 


ness." 


"Well,  then,  suppose  you  show  your  appreciation 
by  telling  the  red-headed  person  in  the  outer  office 
that  he  is  to  take  in  my  card  to  you  when  I  call 
again?" 

"Certainly!"  And  the  czar  of  the  great  Pacific  & 
Southwestern  system  nearly  slew  Doyle  by  accom 
panying  the  reporter  to  the  outer  door  and  saying: 

"Doyle,  any  time  Mr.  Tully  comes  to  see  me  let 
me  know  instantly,  no  matter  what  I  may  be  doing 
or  who  is  with  me.  Understand?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  gasped  Doyle,  looking  terrifiedly  at 
the  sorcerer. 

Tully!  Irish!  That  was  the  reason,  of  course; 
but  he  was  a  wonder,  all  the  same. 

' '  Good  day,  Mr.  Tully.  I  thank  you.  And  don't 
forget  my  offer." 

Mr.  Merriwether  bowed  as  the  door  closed  on 
Mr.  William  Tully  and  then,  walking  like  a  man  in  a 
trance,  returned  to  his  private  office.  He  rang  the 
push-button  marked  No.  i,  and  when  McWayne 

285 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

appeared  turned  a  haggard  face  to  his  private 
secretary. 

"McWayne,  that  reporter  has  a  story  of  Tom's 
engagement,  but  he  wouldn't  tell  me  who  the 
girl  is." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  cried  McWayne,  with  a  not 
very  intelligent  intention  of  comforting  his  chief. 
At  times  the  male  Irish  mind  works  femininely. 

"  Neither  do  I — and  yet  I  do.  It  confirms  Dr. 
Frauenthal's  diagnosis.  I  guess  he  knows  his 
business,  after  all.  Well,  the  story  will  not  be  pub 
lished  yet.  He  acted  pretty  decently." 

McWayne  wondered  how  much  it  had  cost  the  old 
man,  but  he  said,  "Didn't  he  intimate — " 

"That  reporter  knows  his  business,"  cut  in  E.  H. 
Merriwether.  "He  ought  to  be  a  dramatist.  Have 
you  heard  from  your  men?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Tom  has  gone  to  Boston.  Two  of 
them  are  with  him.  He  suspects  nothing." 

"What  else?" 

"They  will  let  me  know  by  long  distance  if  any 
thing  happens." 

"If  anything !  Great  Scott !  isn't  it  enough  that — 
Let  me  hear  what  they  report — on  the  instant!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And,  McWayne—"     He  hesitated. 

McWayne,  his  face  full  of  sincere  solicitude, 
prompted,  gently: 

"Yes,  chief?" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  used  that  word. 
It  made  his  speech  so  friendly,  so  affectionately  per 
sonal,  that  E.  H.  Merriwether  said: 

"Thank  you,  McWayne.  I  wish  you  would  find 
out  for  me  at  once  who  lives  in  777  Fifth  Avenue." 

286 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

4 'Yes,  sir,"  said  McWayne.  " That's  where—" 
He  caught  himself. 

"I  am  afraid  so!"  acquiesced  the  railroad  czar, 
listlessly. 

VIII 

Within  an  hour  McWayne  walked  into  the  private 
office.  His  chief  closed  his  jaws — a  weaker  man 
would  have  clenched  his  fists — in  anticipation. 

"Breese  &  Silliman,  the  real-estate  men,  say  they 
rented  777  Fifth  Avenue,  furnished,  to  a  Madam 
Calderon — an  American  woman,  widow  of  a  Peruvian 
nitrate  king.  She  came  up  here  and  asked  Breese 
about  a  suitable  location.  She  has  a  daughter  she 
wishes  to  marry  in  America.  She  talked  quite 
freely  about  her  affairs.  The  house  was  for  sale,  but 
she  leased  it,  furnished,  with  privilege  of  purchase. 
Belongs  to  the  Martin-Schwenk  Construction  Com 
pany.  The  daughter  is  about  thirty,  dark,  Spanish- 
looking,  and  fleshy;  rather — er — inclined  to  make 
googoo  eyes,  as  Breese  says,  in  a  kind  of  foreign 
way." 

1  'Go  on,"  commanded  E.  H.  Merriwether. 

''Mrs.  Calderon  said  point-blank  that  she  wished 
her  daughter  to  marry  a  nice  young  man  of  wealth 
and  position,  preferably  a  blond.  I  gather  that  the 
agents  were  rather  anxious  to  let  the  house  and  prob 
ably  encouraged  her.  She  has  paid  quarterly  in 
advance,  and  her  banking  references  are  O.  K. ;  but 
nothing  about  her  personally  is  known  to  any  one. 
That's  all  I  could  get." 

"Very  well.    Thank  you,  McWayne." 

The  private  secretary  stood  beside  the  desk,  hesi 
tated,  and  presently  walked  out.  Shortly  afterward, 

287 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

the  great  and  ruthless  E.  H.  Merri wether,  full  of  per 
plexity  and  regret — and  some  remorse  over  his  neg 
lect  of  his  only  son  for  so  many  years — went  up 
town.  He  desired  to  know  what  to  expect,  in  order 
to  be  able  to  think  intelligently,  and,  therefore,  to 
fight  efficiently.  How  could  he  fight — not  knowing 
what  or  whom  to  fight? 

He  told  the  chauffeur  to  wait,  and  then  rang  the 
bell  of  777. 

One  of  the  four  footmen  whose  faces  had  impressed 
Tom  as  being  distinctly  too  intelligent  for  menials, 
opened  the  door. 

"I  wish  to  see  Madam  Calderon." 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir.     Have  you  an  appointment?" 

1  'No.    Say  it  is  Mr.  Merriwether." 

"Mr.  who,  sir?" 

Mr.  Merriwether  took  out  a  card.  The  footman 
received  it  on  a  very  elaborate  silver-gilt  card-tray 
and,  pointing  to  a  particularly  uncomfortable,  high- 
backed  Circassian-walnut  chair  in  the  foyer,  left  the 
great  little  multimillionaire  under  the  watchful  eye 
of  footman  Number  Two.  This  annoyed  Mr.  Merri 
wether.  Nobody  is  altogether  invulnerable. 

The  footman  returned,  with  the  card  and  the  tray. 

"Madam  is  not  at  home,  sir;  but  her  brother 
would  be  glad  to  see  you,  if  you  wish,  sir.  He  is 
madam's  man  of  affairs." 

"Very  well." 

"If  you  please,  sir,  this  way."  And  the  footman 
led  the  way  to  the  door  of  the  library,  where  Tom 
had  been  received  so  often. 

1 '  Mr.  Edward  H.  Merriwether !"  The  emphasis  on 
the  first  name  made  the  little  czar  of  the  Southwest 
ern  roads  think  it  was  done  in  order  to  differentiate 

288 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

him  from  Mr.  Thomas  Merriwether.     Even  great 
men  are  not  above  thinking  themselves  clever. 

He  entered  the  room  and  took  in  its  character  at 
one  glance,  just  as  Tom  had  done.  He  became  cool, 
watchful,  alert,  and  observing,  as  he  always  did 
when  he  went  into  a  fight.  He  looked  at  the  man 
who  was  said  to  be  the  brother  of  the  woman  who 
had  leased  the  house — the  woman  who  had  a  daugh 
ter  she  wished  to  marry  to  a  blond  with  money  and 
position. 

The  man  had  a  square  chin  and,  even  in  repose, 
suggested  power  and  self-control.  Mr.  Merriwether 
met  the  remarkably  steady,  unblinking  gaze  of  two 
extremely  sharp  eyes,  and  recognized  without  any 
particulare  motion  that  he  confronted  a  man  of 
strength  and  resource,  who,  moreover,  had  the  double 
strategical  advantage  of  being  in  his  own  house  and 
of  not  having  sought  this  interview. 

"Be  seated,  sir,"  said  the  man,  in  the  calm  voice 
of  one  who  is  accustomed  to  obedience,  even  in 
trifles. 

Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  sat  down.  He  noticed 
little  things,  as  well  as  big.  He  noted,  for  instance, 
that  he  had  begun  by  doing  exactly  what  this  man 
told  him  to  do.  The  man  intelligently  waited  for 
Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  to  speak.  Mr.  E.  H.  Merri 
wether  did  so.  He  said: 

"I  called  to  see  Madam  Calderon." 

"About?"    The  man  spoke  coldly. 

Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  raised  his  eyebrows.  He 
did  it  in  order  not  to  frown.  There  is  no  wisdom  in 
needless  antagonisms.  His  only  son  was  concerned. 

"About  my  son,"  he  said. 

"Tommy?" 

289 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

The  great  railroad  magnate,  accustomed  to  the 
deference  even  of  the  self-appointed  owners  of  the 
United  States,  flushed  with  anger.  Had  things  gone 
so  far  that  such  intimacy  existed  ? 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  emotion- 
lessly,  "that  my  son  visits  this  house." 

"Of  his  own  volition,  sir." 

"I  did  not  think  there  was  physical  coercion;  but, 
of  course,  as  his  father — "  He  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  sentence. 

This  never  before  had  happened  to  this  man,  who 
always  knew  what  to  do  and  what  to  say,  and  al 
ways  did  it  and  said  it  with  the  least  expenditure  of 
time  and  words;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  what  could 
he  say,  and  how? 

"That  relationship,"  the  man  said,  calmly,  "often 
interferes  with  the  exercise  of  what  people  formerly 
called  common  sense.  Will  you  please  do  me  a  very 
great  favor,  sir?" 

"A  favor?"  Mr.  Merriwether,  skilful  diplomatist 
though  he  could  be  at  times,  now  frowned  in  advance. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Merriwether — indeed,  two  favors;  or 
rather,  three.  First:  Will  you  please  ask  me  no 
questions  now?  Second:  Will  you  please  return  to 
this  house  at  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning? 
And  third:  Will  you  promise  not  to  speak  to  your 
son  about  your  visit  here  until  after  you  have  paid 
your  second  call,  to-morrow?" 

It  flashed  through  Mr.  Merriwether's  mind  that 
to  grant  the  favors  might  expedite  Tom's  appalling 
marriage.  He  said,  decisively: 

"I  cannot  promise  any  of  the  things  you  ask." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  man,  composedly.  "Then, 
I  take  it,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

290 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

He  rose  politely,  and  as  he  did  so  pressed  a  button 
on  the  table.  The  footman  appeared  and  held  the 
door  open  for  Mr.  Merriwether  to  pass  out. 

The  autocrat  of  fifteen  thousand  miles  of  railroad, 
with  unlimited  credit  in  the  money-markets  of  the 
world,  was  not  accustomed  to  being  treated  like  this : 
but,  precisely  because  he  felt  hot  anger  rising  in  tidal 
waves  to  his  brow,  he  instantly  became  cool. 

He  remained  sitting,  and  said,  very  politely : 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  sir,  to  tell  you  that  my 


reasons — " 


The  man,  who  was  still  standing,  held  up  a  hand 
and  broke  in: 

"And  if  you  will  allow  me  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
neither  a  criminal  nor  a  jackass  I  shall  then  proceed 
to  say  that  nobody  in  this  house  has  any  intention  of 
entering  into  any  argument  or  controversy  with  you. 
I  am  actuated  much  less  by  personal  considerations 
of  my  own  than  by  a  desire  to  avert  from  you  eternal 
regrets  and — er — unseemly  displays  of  temper." 

E.  H.  Merriwether  knew  exactly  what  he  would 
like  to  do  to  this  man.  What  he  said — very  mildly — 
was: 

"You  must  admit,  sir,  that  your  requests  might 
be  interpreted — " 

"Oh,  I  see!"  And  the  man  smiled  very  slightly. 
"Well,  suppose  you  take  Tom  to  your  office  with  you 
to-morrow  morning,  and  keep  him  there  while  you 
come  here?  Tell  him  to  wait  for  you,  because  you 
wish  to  have  luncheon  with  him.  I  do  not  care  to 
discuss  my  reasons — for  example — for  not  wishing 
you  to  speak  to  Tom  about  this  visit.  I  do  not  wish 
to  wound  your  feelings;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  you 
know  Tom  as  well  as  a  father  ought  to  know  his 

291 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

only  son.  And  there  are  times  when  a  man  must  be 
more  than  a  father,  when  he  must  be  a  tactful  man  of 
the  world,  and  a  psychologist." 

Mr.  Merriwether  realized  the  force  of  this  so  clearly 
that  he  winced,  but  said  nothing,  since  he  could  not 
admit  such  a  thing  aloud.  The  man  proceeded 
coldly : 

"If  you  are  both  an  intelligent  man  and  a  loving 
father,  you  will  promise  what  I  ask — not  for  my 
sake,  for  yours.  There  are  many  things,  Mr.  E.  H. 
Merriwether,  that  money  does  not  cure,  and  that 
not  even  time  can  heal.  Ask  me  nothing  now ;  come 
here  at  eleven  to-morrow  morning,  and  in  the  mean 
time  do  not  speak  to  Tom  about  himself — or  your 
fears." 

"If  you  were  only  not  so — er — well,  so  damned 
mysterious — "  And  Mr.  Merriwether  forced  him 
self  to  smile  pleasantly. 

1 '  Ah — if !"  exclaimed  the  man,  nodding.  ' '  Do  you 
promise?" 

"Yes!"  answered  Mr.  Merriwether. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Tom  would  not  be 
abducted.  As  for  worse  things,  if  Tom  had  not 
already  committed  matrimony,  he  could  not  very 
well  do  it  in  his  father's  private  office.  It  was  wise 
to  keep  Tom  virtually  a  prisoner  without  his  knowl 
edge.  And  parental  opposition  has  so  often  served 
merely  to  add  gasoline  to  the  flame  of  love  that  one 
father  would  not  even  whisper  his  objections. 

He  bowed  and  left  the  room,  angry  that  nothing 
had  been  accomplished,  relieved  that  within  twenty- 
four  hours  the  matter  would  probably  be  settled,  and 
not  quite  so  confident  of  the  power  of  money  as  he 
had  been  for  many  years. 

292 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

IX 

Tom  arrived  at  his  home  early  enough  to  have  his 
bath  at  the  usual  hour.  Though  he  had  never  been 
asked  to  account  for  his  movements,  he  nevertheless 
made  it  a  point  to  breakfast  with  his  father.  He 
would  do  so  to-day.  There  was  no  occasion  to  say 
he  had  been  to  Boston  or  that  he  had  slept  in  a  Pull 
man. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  not  slept  well.  The 
stateroom  seemed  full  of  those  elusive  flower- 
fragrances  that  always  made  him  think  of  her,  par 
ticularly  sweet  peas — a  beautiful  flower,  and  of  such 
delicate  colors,  he  now  remembered,  who  had  not 
thought  of  them  for  years.  He  really  loved  them,  he 
now  discovered.  Their  odor  always  tinged  his. 
thoughts  with  a  vague  spirit  of  romance;  and  this, 
in  turn,  in  some  subtle  way,  rendered  him  more  sus 
ceptible  to  the  lure  of  adventure.  It  almost  made 
him  feel  like  a  boy. 

For  all  the  stimulating  reaction  of  his  cold 
plunge,  Tom  looked  a  trifle  tired  about  the  eyes 
at  breakfast. 

Mr.  Merriwether  looked  at  his  son  with  eyes  that 
also  looked  tired;  said,  "Good  morning,  Tom!"  in 
his  usual  tone  of  voice,  and  hid  behind  his  newspaper. 
Instead  of  reading  about  the  absurd  demands  of  the 
railroad  workers  all  over  the  United  States  for  higher 
wages,  he  was  thinking  that  he  had  never  allowed 
anybody  to  do  his  work  for  him,  because  he  had  al 
ways  intended  that  Tom  should  succeed  him.  He 
had  at  one  time  fully  intended  to  train  Tom  for  the 
succession,  to  have  him  learn  railroading  from  brake- 
man  up. 

293 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Indeed,  the  boy  after  leaving  college  had  seemed 
much  taken  with  the  idea  and  listened  with  interest 
to  his  father's  talks  about  his  plans  and  desires  and 
hopes.  But  with  the  great  boom,  that  wonderful  era 
of  amazing  reorganizations  and  stupendous  consoli 
dations,  the  great  little  man  had  been  swamped  by 
the  flood  of  gold  that  poured  into  Wall  Street. 

And  gold,  as  usual,  had  been  ruthless  in  its  de 
mands  on  the  great  little  man's  time.  For  years  he 
had  averaged  a  net  personal  profit  of  a  million  a 
month;  but  it  was  not  that  he  wished  to  make  more 
money.  It  was  that  his  time  no  longer  belonged  to 
himself;  it  was  not  his  family's,  but  his  associates' — 
not  his  only  son's,  but  his  many  syndicates'.  And 
he  had  devoted  himself  to  the  welfare  of  his  syndi 
cates  and  had  written  a  dazzling  page  in  the  annals 
of  Wall  Street. 

But  what  about  his  son's  present  and  the  future 
of  the  Merri wether  roads?  If  Tom  died,  the  Mem- 
wether  dream  would  follow  him,  but  that  would  be 
a  natural  death  at  the  hands  of  God.  If  Tom  lived 
and  refused  to  be  a  Merriwether,  the  death  of  the 
Merri  wether  dreams  would  be  by  slow  strangulation. 
In  short,  hell! 

His  promise  to  the  brother  of  the  woman  who  had 
a  daughter  that  might  prove  to  be  the  executioner 
of  his  dreams  stared  him  in  the  face.  The  situation 
called  for  tact  and  skill  and  superhuman  self-control. 
He  liked  to  fight  in  the  open;  but  this  was  not  a 
battle  for  more  millions;  it  involved  more  than  the 
deglutition  of  a  rival  railroad. 

McWayne  had  reported  that  Tom  had  acted  like 
a  lunatic  when  he  could  not  secure  the  room  in  the 
Hotel  Lorraine  that  had  been  engaged  by  Mrs.  Cal- 

294 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

deron  and  daughter.  The  only  ray  of  light  was  that 
Tom  had  not  talked  to  the  ladies. 

"Tom,"  asked  Mr.  Merriwether,  casually,  "have 
you  anything  on  special  for  this  morning?" 

Tom  had  in  mind  a  visit  to  777  Fifth  Avenue,  at 
which  he  promised  himself  to  end  the  affair;  but  he 
answered : 

"N-no." 

"I  mean,"  said  the  father,  speaking  even  more 
casually,  because  he  noted  the  hesitancy,  "anything 
that  could  not  be  done  just  as  well  in  the  afternoon." 

"Oh  no,  I  have  nothing  special;  in  fact,  nothing 
at  all,"  said  Tom. 

Mr.  Merriwether  saw  in  his  reply  merely  Tom's 
way  of  not  declaring  his  intention  to  see  the  girl. 

"Then  I  wish  you  would  come  down-town  with  me. 
I  have  some  papers  I  want  you  to  look  over,  and  we'll 
have  luncheon  together.  What  do  you  say?" 

A  prisoner  accused  of  murder  in  the  first  degree 
does  not  listen  to  the  jury's  verdict  with  more  inter 
est  than  E.  H.  Merriwether  waited  for  Tom's  reply, 
for  at  this  crisis  he  realized  that  he  had  not  been 
in  his  son's  confidence  in  those  other  important  little 
crises  of  boyhood  that  breed  in  sons  the  habit  of 
confiding  in  fathers. 

"Sure  thing!"  said  Tom,  cheerfully. 

Though  thus  relieved  of  some  of  his  fears,  there 
remained  with  E.  H.  Merriwether  the  determination 
that  Tom  had  not  volunteered  any  information. 
The  little  czar  of  the  Pacific  &  Southwestern  was  so 
intelligent  that  in  general  he  was  fundamentally  just. 
He  did  not  exactly  blame  Tom  for  not  confiding  in 
him,  but,  also,  he  did  not  blame  himself.  And  this 
was  because  he  had  habituated  himself  to  paying 

295 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

for  his  mistakes  in  dollars.  What  could  not  be  paid 
off  in  dollars  was  never  a  mistake,  though  it  might 
well  be  a  misfortune. 

They  went  down-town  together.  Mr.  Merri wether 
took  Tom  into  one  of  his  half-dozen  private  offices, 
made  him  sit  down  in  one  of  those  over-comforta 
ble  arm-chairs  that  you  paradoxically  find  in  busy 
Wall  Street  offices,  and  said  to  him  very  seriously : 

"My  son,  here  is  the  history  of  the  Pacific  & 
Southwestern  system  from  its  very  start.  It  goes 
back  to  the  early  stage-line  days  and  is  brought  up 
to  to-day.  I  had  it  prepared  in  anticipation  of  an 
ill-advised  Congressional  investigation.  I  have  thus 
far  succeeded  in  staving  off  the  investigation,  not 
because  I  was  afraid  of  it  or  because  it  might  hurt 
me,  but  because  the  market  was  in  bad  shape  to 
stand  the  alarmist  rumors  and  canards  and  threats 
that  always  go  with  such  affairs.  Other  people 
would  have  quite  unnecessarily  lost  money.  As 
soon  as  the  investigation  cannot  be  used  as  a  bear 
club  I'll  let  up  opposing  it.  I'll  even  help  it." 
He  paused  and  gave  to  Tom  a  book  bound  in  limp 
black  morroco.  "I  want  you  to  read  this  book 
because  it  is  written  with  complete  frankness  in  order 
to  spike  certain  political  guns.  t  You  will  get  in  it 
the  full  story  of  what  has  been  done  and  what  we 
hope  still  to  be  allowed  to  accomplish.  When  you 
get  through  with  it  you'll  know  as  much  about  the 
system  as  I  do!" 

The  old  man  had  spoken  quietly  and  impressively. 
Tom  was  so  pleased  at  having  something  to  occupy 
his  mind  and  keep  it  from  dwelling  on  the  girl  he 
had  never  seen  and  the  exasperating  scoundrel  at 
777  Fifth  Avenue  that  his  face  lighted  up  with  joy. 

296 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

"You  could  not  have  given  me  anything  to  do 
that  I'd  like  better,  dad!"  he  said,  with  such  ob 
viously  sincere  enthusiasm  that  Mr.  Merriwether 
felt  profoundly  grateful  for  this  blessing. 

Then  came  the  inevitable  reaction  and  with  it  the 
thought:  "Have  I  gained  a  successor  only  to  lose 
him  to  some — 

He  shook  his  head,  clenched  his  jaws,  and  looked 
at  his  watch.  It  was  not  yet  time  to  go  to  fight 
for  the  possession  of  his  son.  He  had  much  to  do 
before  he  left  his  office  to  go  to  777  Fifth  Avenue. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  '-'you  stay  here  until  I  return — 
will  you?" 

"You  bet !"  smiled  Tom,  looking  at  the  thickness  of 
the  system's  history. 

"I  have  a  meeting  or  two  before  luncheon,  but 
I'll  try  not  to  let  them  interfere." 

"Any  time  before  three,  boss,"  said  his  son, 
cheerfully. 

His  heir  and  successor,  but,  above  all  and  every 
thing,  his  son!  There  was  no  sacrifice  he  would 
not  make  for  this  boy  to  keep  him  from  blighting 
his  own  career — and  his  father's  hopes,  he  added, 
with  the  selfishness  of  real  love. 

Knowing  that  Tom  was  safely  imprisoned  and 
could  not  marry  at  least  for  a  few  hours,  he  was  able 
to  concentrate  his  mind  on  his  railroad's  affairs. 
He  disposed  of  the  more  urgent  matters.  At  ten- 
forty  he  sent  for  Me  Wayne. 

"I'm  going  to  777  Fifth  Avenue." 

"Again?"  inadvertently  said  the  private  secre 
tary. 

Mr.  Merriwether  looked  at  him. 

McWayne  went  on  to  explain:  "I've  had  a  man 
20  297 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

watching  it  since  we  found  Tom  called  there,  just 
before  going  to  Boston." 

1 '  Right !  I  expect  to  be  back  in  time  to  lunch  with 
Tom;  but  if  I  should  be  delayed — "  He  paused. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

" — delayed  beyond  one  o'clock  have  luncheon 
brought  from  the  Meridian  Club  and  tell  Tom  I 
wish  him  to  stay  until  I  return.  This  is  important." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  think  that  is  all." 

"If  no  word  is  received  from  you  by — "  McWayne 
paused. 

Mr.  Merriwether  finished.  ' '  By  two  o'clock,  come 
after  me.  But  always  remember  the  newspapers!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I'll  telephone  before  two  in  case  I  expect  to  stay 
beyond  that  hour." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

E.  H.  Merriwether  put  on  his  hat,  familiar  to  the 
world  through  the  newspaper  caricaturists — and 
walked  toward  the  door.  Then  he  did  what  he 
never  before  had  done — he  repeated  an  order!  He 
said  to  McWayne,  "Look  after  Tom!" 

"Yes,  sir."  ' 

Then  he  went  to  7  7  7  Fifth  Avenue  to  learn  whether 
Tom  was  to  be  his  pride  and  successor  or  his  sorrow 
and  dream-slayer. 


E.  H.  Merriwether  drove  to  the  house  of  mystery 
in  his  motor,  told  the  chauffeur  to  wait,  and  rang  the 
bell.  One  of  the  over-intelligent-looking  footmen 
opened  the  door. 

298 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr. — whoever  is  master  in  this 
house." 

"Yes,  sir!" 

The  footman  led  the  way.  At  the  door  of  the  li 
brary  he  knocked  twice,  sharply,  then,  after  a  pause, 
once,  and  then  twice  again.  He  waited;  and  pres 
ently,  having  evidently  heard  some  answer  not  au 
dible  to  the  financier,  he  opened  the  door  and  an 
nounced  : 

"Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether!" 

Why  had  there  been  any  necessity  for  signals? 
Why  such  cheap  theatrical  claptrap?  To  make  him 
think  things  ?  These  questions  in  Mr.  Merriwether's 
mind  showed  that  the  mysterious  master  of  the  house 
knew  the  advantage  of  suggesting  the  important 
sense  of  difference. 

"Good  morning,  sir." 

"Good  morning,"  answered  E.  H.  Merriwether, 
and  looked  about  the  room. 

No  girl ! 

It  began  to  irritate  him.  The  man  intensified  the 
feeling  by  speaking  very  deliberately,  as  one  to  whom 
time  is  no  object : 

"Will  you  not  be  seated,  Mr.  Merriwether?" 

"I  am  a  very  busy  man,"  began  the  autocrat  of 
fifteen  thousand  miles  of  railroad. 

"Sit  down,  anyhow,"  imperturbably  suggested  the 
man. 

The  autocrat  sat  down.  He  said,  "But  please 
understand  that." 

"I  won't  keep  you  any  longer  because  you  are 
sitting.  Shall  we  get  down  to  business?" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Merriwether"  —  the  man  spoke  almost 
299 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

dreamily — "do  you  know  why  I  asked  you  to  call 
to-day  at  eleven  ?" 

"No." 

"Because  when  you  were  here  yesterday  it  was 
after  banking  hours." 

"And?"    The  little  czar  was  in  a  hurry  to  finish. 

' '  You,  Mr.  Merriwether,  are  one  of  those  fortunate 
mortals  about  whom  the  newspapers  do  not  lie." 

* '  Oh,  am  I  ?  I  take  it  you  haven't  seen  a  newspaper 
in  twelve  years."  Mr.  Merriwether,  after  all,  was 
an  American.  His  sense  of  humor  helped  to  make 
him  great. 

"I've  read  every  line  that  has  ever  been  printed 
about  you — I  had  to,  in  order  to  study  you  exhaust 
ively.  I  find  that  you  are  acknowledged  by  both 
friends  and  foes  to  be  an  intelligent  man." 

"Oh  yes!" 

"A  very  intelligent  man,"  continued  the  man. 

"And  therefore?"  said  the  very  intelligent  man. 

"And,  therefore,  I  now  ask  you  to  give  me  one 
million  dollars." 

Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  never  so  much  as  batted 
an  eyelid.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stranger's 
eyes.  He  repeated,  a  trifle  impatiently: 

"And?" 

"A  certified  check  will  do." 

"Come  to  the  point.  I  am  a  busy  man,"  said  Mr. 
Merriwether. 

The  man  looked  at  the  little  financier  admiringly. 
Then  he  said,  "You  mean  you  wish  to  know  why 
you  should  give  the  million,  or  what  you  will  get 
for  it?" 

"Either!     Both!" 

"You  should  give  it  because  it  is  I  who  ask  it. 
300 


CHEAP   AT    A    MILLION 

You  will  get  for  it  what  is  very,  very  cheap  at  a 
million." 

"My  dear  sir,  we'd  do  business  quicker  if  you'd 
play  show-down." 

Now  that  it  was  a  matter  of  money,  of  paying,  of 
trading,  Tom's  father  felt  a  great  sense  of  relief. 
Still,  there  was  Tom's  unhappiness  to  consider.  Poor 
boy! 

1 '  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  million  so  that  in  return 
I  may  give  you  a  daughter-in-law." 

'  *  You  mean  you  will  not  give  me  a  daughter-in-law 
if  I  give  you  a  million,  don't  you?" 

"I  am  in  the  habit  of  meaning  what  I  say.  The 
sooner  you  learn  that,  the  quicker  we'll  close  the 
deal.  I  mean  that  for  a  million  dollars  I'll  give  you 
a  daughter-in-law." 

Mr.  Merriwether  shook  his  head.  It  was  plainly 
to  be  seen  on  his  face  that  every  moment  spent  in 
this  room  was  a  sad  waste  of  time. 

"Isn't  it  worth  a  million  to  you?"  asked  the  man, 
as  if  he  knew  it  was. 

Mr.  Merriwether  proceeded  to  look  as  though  it 
were  worth  even  less  than  a  Santo  Domingo  mining 
concession.  Then  he  said,  with  finality: 

"No." 

The  man  rose. 

"Then,"  he  spoke  indifferently,  "come  back  when 
it  is.  I'll  ask  you  to  excuse  me.  I,  also,  am  a  busy 
man.  Good  day,  sir." 

Mr.  Merriwether  rose  and  bowed.  He  looked 
straight  into  the  man's  very  shrewd  eyes,  smiled 
very  slightly — and  sat  down  again. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  very  pleasantly,  for  his 
bluff  had  been  called,  "Miss  Calderon?" 

301 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

The  man  sat  down. 

"Oh  no!"  he  answered,  unsmilingly. 

* '  No  ?  Then  ? ' '  Mr.  Merri wether  was  so  surprised 
that  he  forgot  not  to  show  it. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  a  busy  man,  because  what  I 
have  to  say  can  not  be  hurried.  First,  you  must 
chase  from  your  mind  all  thoughts  of  Wall  Street, 
high  finance,  railroad  systems  —  and  fill  it  with 
love!" 

Mr.  Merri  wether  looked  alarmed.  Would  it  all 
end  with  a  Biblical  text  and  an  exhortation  to  endow 
some  sort  of  a  Home? 

"You  can  do  this,"  pursued  the  man,  imperturb- 
ably,  "by  thinking  of  your  son  Tom.  He  is  your 
only  son.  You  should  love  him.  Once  your  mind  is 
attuned  to  thoughts  of  love,  you  will  be  able  to  un 
derstand  me  more  easily.  Concentrate  on  love!" 

The  man  leaned  back  in  his  chair  as  though  he 
were  certain  the  attuning  process  would  consume  an 
hour,  this  being,  alas !  a  Wall  Street  man ;  but  Mer 
ri  wether  said,  very  promptly: 

"I  am  ready  for  chapter  two." 

"I  doubt  it.  Love!  The  love  of  father  for  son,  of 
son  for  mother,  of  son  for  wife,  of  son  for  father!" 

' '  I  understand.    My  mind  works  quickly.    Go  on !" 

"Do  you  by  any  chance  happen  to  know  that  your 
son  is  in  love?" 

"Yes.     Where  is  the  girl?" 

"It  isn't  the  girl.    It's  just  girl." 

' '  Oh,  hell !     Quit  vaudevilling !" 

"There  is  no  girl  who  is  the  girl.  There  never  was. 
There  doesn't  have  to  be  any!" 

Quite  obviously  this  man  was  a  lunatic — with  the 
eyes  of  a  particularly  sane  person.  If  there  was  no 

302 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

girl  Tom  was  in  no  danger  of  marriage.  A  million 
for  not  marrying  an  undesirable  person,  yes,  but  a 
million  for  a  daughter-in-law,  when  Tom  was  not 
in  love! 

"Only,"  thought  Mr.  Merriwether,  "in  case  I 
have  the  selecting  of  her!  And  if  I  pick  her  I  don't 
have  to  pay." 

"And  yet,"  said  the  man,  musingly,  "Tom  loves 
her!" 

Mr.  Merriwether's  perplexity  was  fast  rising  to  the 
dignity  of  anger. 

"If  there  had  been  a  girl  of  Tom's  own  class,"  the 
man  went  on,  as  if  talking  to  himself,  "why  shouldn't 
he  have  been  seen  in  public  with  her?"  Mr.  Merri 
wether  was  listening  now  with  his  soul.  "And  if  this 
girl  were  of  the  other  class — that  financial  geniuses, 
alas !  sometimes  have  to  accept  for  daughters-in-law 
—a  nice,  vivacious  chorus-lady,  or  a  refined  Reno 
graduate,  or  worse — she  would  have  insisted  on  be 
ing  seen  in  public  with  Tom,  to  show  her  power  and 
to  raise  the  paternal  bid-price  for  a  trip  to  Europe- 
alone!" 

The  man  ceased  to  speak  and  began  to  nod  his 
head  slowly,  his  gaze  on  the  rug  at  his  feet.  Mr. 
Merriwether  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"If  there  is  no  girl,  what  in  blazes  do  I  get  for  my 
million?" 

"Your  pick  of  eight." 

"Eight  what?" 

"Eight  perfect  daughters-in-law!" 

A  thought  shot  through  Mr.  Merriwether's  mind: 
Was  any  form  of  insanity  contagious?  He  looked  at 
the  lunatic.  The  eyes  were  sane,  cold,  shrewd, 
mind-reading  eyes  full  of  a  sardonic  humor. 

303 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"They  are  all,"  added  the  man,  as  if  he  wished  to 
Jispel  unworthy  suspicion,  "in  love." 

"With  Tom?'* 

"With  love— like  Tom!" 

"With  love— like  Tom!"  helplessly  repeated  Mr. 
E.  H.  Merri wether. 

"Your  mind" — the  man  spoke  very  slowly  and 
distinctly,  as  if  he  wished  to  deprive  Mr.  Merriwether 
of  every  excuse  for  not  understanding  him — "does 
not  seem  to  be  working  this  morning  with  its  usual 
efficiency!" 

"No!"  admitted  Mr.  Merriwether,  sadly.  "If 
you'd  only  use  words  of  one  syllable  I  think  I  could 
follow  you  better." 

"It  isn't  that.  It  is  that  your  mind  was  not  at 
tuned  in  the  beginning  to  the  thought  of  love,  and, 
therefore,  could  not  follow  my  words.  You  compel 
me  to  spend  time  in  explaining  the  obvious.  Listen ! 
If  you  wish  Tom  to  become  the  heir  to  your  name, 
to  your  railroad,  to  your  work,  and  to  all  the  dreams 
you  have  dreamed  about  your  work  and  about  your 
son;  if  you  want  him  to  be  your  successor,  to  con 
tinue  your  work,  to  perpetuate  the  name  and  influ 
ence  of  Merriwether  in  his  country — I  say,  if  you 
wish  all  this,  he  must  do  one  thing,  and  you  must  see 
that  he  does  it.  And  that  one  thing,  Mr.  Merri 
wether,  is  for  him  to  marry  wisely.  Do  you  get 
that?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Merriwether,  very  simply. 

"If  he  doesn't,  it  will  be  death  to  your  hopes,  a 
tragic  break  in  the  Merriwether  succession.  No, 
don't  shake  your  head.  Admit  it.  Face  it  frankly. 
I  know  it.  I  know  that  you  also  know  it.  Can  you 
expect  me  to  believe  that  you  want  Tom  to  be  the 

304 


CHEAP   AT   A   MILLION 

fool   husband   of   a   fool   girl  whose   influence   on 
him—" 

"Tom  isn't  that  kind,"  interrupted  E.  H.  Merri- 
wether. 

"All  men  are  that  kind.  Does  history  record  the 
case  of  a  man,  greater  even  than  E.  H.  Merri wether, 
who,  when  it  came  to  women,  was  an  utter  ass?  Yes, 
of  a  thousand;  in  fact,  the  stronger  the  man,  the 
weaker  she  makes  him — the  better  his  brain,  the 
worse  his  folly.  And  the  cure?  When  an  intelligent 
man  realizes  that  he  is  a  hopeless  ass  over  one  woman 
he  realizes  that  his  only  escape  is  by  the  suicide 
route.  No!  It's  much  cheaper  for  you  to  pay  the 
million.  Oblige  me  by  thinking.  Isn't  it  cheaper  to 
pay  a  million?" 

He  held  up  a  silencing  hand,  as  though  he  wished 
Mr.  Merriwether  to  spend  a  full  hour  thinking  of  the 
bargain  he  was  getting.  Mr.  Merriwether  thought — 
quickly  and  accurately  as  was  his  wont.  And  he  ad 
mitted  to  himself  that  it  was  indeed  cheap  at  a  mil 
lion.  But  there  must  be  value  received.  Promises, 
however  plausible,  are  no  more  to  be  capitalized 
blindly  than  threats.  It  depends  on  who  promises, 
and  why ;  and  also  on  what  is  promised .  He  thought  of 
offering  a  smaller  sum  and  of  going  through  the  usual 
preliminaries  of  a  trade,  but  decided  to  be  frank. 

"If  you  can  deliver  the  goods,  I'll  pay  the  million." 
And,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  "Gladly!" 

"I  banked  on  that  when  I  decided  you  ought  to 
contribute  a  million  to  our  fund,"  said  the  man, 
simply.  "I  studied  you  and  your  fortune  and  your 
vulnerability,  and  I  decided  to  attack  via  Tom.  This 
was  easier  and  cheaper  than  a  stock-market  cam 
paign." 

305 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

The  man  somehow  looked  as  though  he  had  said 
all  that  was  necessary;  but  Mr.  Merri wether  re 
minded  him : 

"You  must  prove  your  ability  to  deliver  the 
goods." 

"I  thought" — the  man  seemed  mildly  surprised — 
"we  had." 

"Certainly  not.     The  million  hasn't  stirred." 

"You  are  a  brave  man,  Mr.  Merriwether." 

Mr.  Merriwether  laughed,  and  said : 

' '  What  should  I  fear  ?  People  don't  murder  a  man 
like  me  and  get  away  with  it — not  when  the  motive 
is  money.  Political  assassination,  perhaps;  but  not 
for  a  few  dollars — especially  when  my  heirs  would 
spend  millions  to  see  that  justice  did  not  miscarry." 
He  shook  his  head,  smilingly. 

"My  dear  sir,  when  we  decided  to  go  into  the 
gold-mining  business — " 

' '  Gold-mining  business !" 

"Exactly!  We  thought  to  save  time  and  effort  by 
getting  our  gold  already  coined.  Our  general  staff 
studied  various  methods — the  ticker,  for  instance, 
and  legislative  attacks  on  your  roads;  but  we  went 
back  to  Tom.  It  is,  of  course,  nearly  as  stupid  to 
overestimate  as  to  underestimate  one's  opponent; 
so,  while  we  provided  against  every  contingency 
arising  from  your  undoubted  possession  of  a  resource 
ful  and  fearless  mind,  we  also  thought — please  take 
note — that  you  might  display  stupidity;  and  we 
prepared  for  it.  Such  as,  for  instance,  in  case  you 
point-blank  said  No!  We  have  also  provided  ways 
of  preventing  you  and  your  uncaptured  millions  from 
hurting  us.  Of  course  we  could  make  the  stock- 
market  pay  us  for  the  trouble  of  kidnapping  you  or 

306 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

of  murdering  you.  Don't  you  see  clearly  what  you 
would  do  if  you  were  in  my  place?" 

"Oh  yes — I  see  it  clearly;  but  I  don't  believe  you 
could  do  what  I  could  in  your  place?" 

' '  Nobody  is  free  from  vanity,  for  everybody  seems 
to  be  a  natural  monopolist  when  it  comes  to  brains. 
You  are  kidnapped  at  this  very  moment,  aren't  you?" 

"People  know  I  am  here— 

"Oh  yes!  We  expect  to  have  you  telephone 
McWayne  presently  not  to  expect  you  to  lunch,  and 
that  we  have  extended  every  facility  to  his  detectives 
for  having  this  house  under  surveillance.  We  kid 
napped  the  great  Garrettson  and  kept  him  out  of 
reach  of  the  great  world  of  finance  long  enough  to 
enable  us  to  cash  in.  Not  only  that,  but  he  never 
told  how  we  did  it.  You  remember  when  Steel 
broke  to—" 

"You  didn't  do  that!"  exclaimed  E.  H.  Merri- 
wether. 

"Oh  yes,  we  did;  and  I'll  tell  you  how."  And 
the  man  briefly  outlined  the  case  for  him. 

E.  H.  Merriwether  listened  with  much  interest. 
When  the  man  made  an  end  of  speaking,  the  financier 
shook  his  head  skeptically,  which  made  the  man  ask : 

"You  don't  believe  it?" 

"No!"  answered  Mr.  Merriwether. 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  so.  We  also  might  have  en 
gineered  in  your  case  some  deal  such  as  that  by  which 
we  compelled  Ashton  Welles  to  disgorge  some  of  the 
money  he  had  no  business  to  have."  And  he  pro 
ceeded  to  enlighten  the  financier. 

"Very  clever!"  said  Mr.  Merriwether. 

"Rather  neat!"  modestly  acquiesced  the  man. 
"Suppose  we  had  decided  to  kidnap  you?  The 

307 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  you  here.  Well,  you 
are  here." 

"How  will  you  make  money  by  that?"  asked  the 
financier,  smiling. 

"We  don't  expect  to.  We  have  not  planned  to 
make  money  by  kidnapping  you.  Nevertheless,  you 
must  admit  it  can  be  made  a  very  expensive  matter 
for  you.  But  please  let  me  kidnap  you  without  in 
terruption!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  said  Mr.  Merri wether, 
gravely. 

It  struck  him  that  the  possession  of  a  sense  of 
humor  makes  a  crook  ten  times  more  dangerous.  It 
was  what  made  the  reporter,  Tully,  really  formida 
ble. 

"We  assume  that  you  foresaw  the  danger  to  your 
self  in  coming  alone  to  this  house.  You'd  employ 
private  detectives  to  watch  it  at  ten  dollars  a  day 
a  man,  exactly  as  you  have  had  your  son  watched  the 
moment  we  decided  it  was  time  for  you  to  begin  the 
watching.  McWayne,  your  efficient  private  secre 
tary,  is  ready  to  move  to  your  rescue.  I  don't  see 
what  else  you  could  have  done  to  protect  yourself 
that  we  have  not  provided  for." 

"The  police!"  mildly  suggested  Mr.  Merriwether. 

"And  the  reporters!"  mocked  the  man.  "Pshaw! 
We  know  what  we  are  doing.  Why,  we  have  re 
hearsed  your  kidnapping  and  even  your  death.  Our 
ablest  members  have  in  turn  impersonated  you  — 
put  themselves  in  your  place  and  fought  us.  I  will 
not  bore  you  with  more  details,  and  I  admit  that  the 
human  mind  cannot  foresee  accidents;  but  we  have 
studied  how  your  mind  would  work.  Suppose  you 
assume  that  you  are  kidnapped  and  beyond  the  pos- 

308 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

sibility  of  help  from  your  friends.  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  we  have  done  to  make  Tom  marry  one  of  our 
eight  desirable  candidates?" 

"If  you  still  wish  that  million." 

"Having  decided  to  attack  through  Tom,  we 
studied  him  and  his  ancestry  on  both  sides.  We 
easily  learned  that  he  had  never  had  a  serious  love- 
affair,  and  that  he  was  imaginative  and  adventurous, 
like  yourself.  There  were  many  young  women  who 
would  have  liked  to  become  your  daughter-in-law — 
too  many.  That  was  Tom's  trouble.  But  our  prob 
lem  was  really  made  easier  by  that.  We  simply  had 
to  turn  his  thoughts  to  love  and  to  one  girl.  We 
therefore  did." 

"How?" 

"We  got  him  here.  I  piqued  his  curiosity  and 
made  the  affair  an  extraordinary  one  by  saying  all 
we  wished  him  to  do  was  to  answer  one  question.  As 
we  had  rather  expected,  he  would  not  come;  but,  of 
course,  we  had  foreseen  that,  and  so  we  got  him  here 
in  one  of  our  own  taxicabs." 

"How?" 

"We  telephoned  him  that  the  doctor  said  he  should 
come  instantly,  and  that  you  were  not  really  in 
danger.  We  don't  believe  in  lies;  but  we  took  pains 
that  no  other  cab  should  be  in  front  of  the  club  when 
we  telephoned  him  from  the  corner  drug-store.  Atten 
tion  to  details,  my  dear  sir,  always  brings  home  the 
bacon.  Having  roused  the  spirit  of  adventure  in  a 
remarkable  way,  I  then  asked  him  the  great  question. 
What  do  you  think  it  was?" 

Tom's  father  shook  his  head. 

"It  was  this:  Where  did  you  spend  your  summer 
at  the  end  of  your  freshman  year?  He  told  me. 

309 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

Then  I  gave  him  a  box  made  to  order  for  me  by  a 
French  expert,  which  would  deceive  other  experts  so 
long  as  we  did  not  try  to  sell  it.  Anybody  can 
imitate  the  goldwork  of  any  period.  In  all  the 
museums  of  the  world  you  will  find  fakes.  Attention 
to  details!  I  was  prepared  to  have  him  show  that 
box  to  local  experts.  I  assumed  he  would  do  so, 
being  a  Merriwether  and,  therefore,  intelligently 
curious." 

"Box  with  what?"  asked  Mr.  Merriwether,  also 
intelligently  curious. 

"Wait!  When  your  son  told  me  where  he  spent 
his  summer  at  the  end  of  his  freshman  year  I  knew 
he  was  then  about  nineteen — too  young  to  think  of 
marriage,  but  old  enough  to  think  of  love.  He  had 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  been  free  from  home  in 
fluences  and  direct  parental  supervision.  He  was 
bound  to  regard  himself  as  a  man  of  the  world  and 
think  of  innocent  flirtations  as  a  manly  art.  Being 
in  that  frame  of  mind,  and  at  the  same  time  being  a 
nice,  rich,  good-looking  chap,  all  the  girls  would 
naturally  make  a  dead  set  for  him.  Their  numbers 
would  keep  him  from  having  one  love-affair.  All 
love-affairs  at  twenty  are  much  the  same.  A  boy 
always  begins  by  being  in  love  with  love.  Indeed,  I 
believe  twenty-year  love  to  be  exclusively  a  literary 
passion — that  is,  boys  get  it  from  reading  about  it. 
Of  course  I  studied  time,  period,  locality,  and  mani 
fold  probabilities;  and,  therefore,  I  sent  him  on  a 
mission  that  suggested  love — love  for  the  one  girl 
that  Fate  intended  him  to  love  and  to  marry.  In 
order  to  fix,  accentuate,  and  accelerate  his  love- 
thinking  I  used  the  perfume  of  sweet  peas." 

"How  does  that  work?" 
310 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

"I  picked  out  sweet  peas  because  they  are  found 
everywhere.  Their  odor  is  strong  and  characteristic. 
He  must  have  inhaled  that  odor  thousands  of  times 
when  he  was  flirting  with  pretty  girls  the  summer  he 
spent  at  Oleander  Point  with  Dr.  Bonner." 

"Yes;   but  about  suggesting— 

' '  I  advise  you  to  read  up  on  the  psychology  of  odor 
associations.  You  will  learn  that  there  is  a  very 
close  relation  between  the  olfactory  sense  and  the 
desire  to  love.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  declared  that 
memory,  imagination,  old  sentiments,  and  associa 
tions  are  more  readily  reached  through  the  sense  of 
smell  than  by  almost  any  other  channel;  and,  also, 
that  'olfactory  impressions  tend  to  be  associated 
with  a  sum-total  of  feeling- tone.'  This  has  been 
known  for  thousands  of  years.  A  very  interesting 
paper  was  written  by  Mackenzie,  of  Johns  Hopkins. 
If  you  read  it  you  will  know  more  than  I  can  now 
take  the  time  to  tell  you.  The  Orient  understands 
the  value  of  perfumes  in  lovemaking,  and  I  could 
tell  you  amazing  things;  but  I  will  refer  you  to 
Cabanis,  Dadisett,  Hobbes,  Jaworski,  Iwanicki, 
Schiff,  Wolff,  and  Zwaardemaker.  If  you  wish,  my 
secretary  will  prepare  an  exhaustive  bibliography  of 
the  subject  for  you." 

' '  No,  thanks/ '  said  Mr.  Merriwether.  ' '  But  I  still 
don't  understand — " 

The  man  sighed.  Then  he  said,  "I'll  tell  you,  of 
course."  He  then  told  Tom's  father  about  the  mes 
sage  in  the  dark  that  Tom  had  carried. 

"But  he  couldn't  believe  it !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Merri 
wether. 

"No;  he  couldn't — but  he  did.  Of  course  I  have 
taken  you  behind  the  scenes — that  is,  I  have  opened 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

your  eyes  and  turned  your  head  in  the  proper  direc 
tion  and  held  it  firmly  there  and  shouted,  'Look!' 
And  of  course  you  see  the  machinery  standing  still 
and  you  can't  imagine  it  in  motion.  You  are  not  as 
imaginative  as  I  thought  you  were." 

"Huh!"  said  E.  H.  Merriwether,  thoughtfully. 
Then  after  a  pause  he  said:  "I  see  the  wheels  re 
volving.  Ingenious !' ' 

"More  than  that,  practical!  My  object  in  hav 
ing  Tom  fall  in  love  with  love,  suggesting  that  there 
was  one  girl  born  to  be  his  bride,  accentuated  by  my 
use  of  the  sweet-peas  odor  as  a  leit-motif,  was  to 
have  something  to  offer  you  which  would  be  cheap 
at  a  million.  The  next  step  was  to  make  Tom  do 
foolish  things — for  effect  on  you.  First,  to  make 
you  fear  Tom  was  crazy.  I  had  a  girl  who  knew 
young  Waters  talk  to  him  about  Tom's  new  and 
alarming  queerness  and  suggest  that  he  telephone 
to  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether.  Of  course  Waters 
wouldn't  telephone — and  of  course  I  did.  And,  of 
course,  if  you  had  disbelieved  or  suspected  you 
would  have  sent  for  young  Mr.  Waters  and  he  would 
have  denied  the  telephone,  but  admitted  the  queer 
actions  of  Tom  and  the  fact  that  people  were  talking 
about  them.  That  would  have  allayed  any  sus 
picion  you  might  have  entertained.  So  I  stage- 
managed  the  opera  scene  and  the  Boston  trip  to 
make  you  fear  the  worst.  In  that  frame  of  mind 
you  could  be  induced  to  come  here  voluntarily.  I 
sent  Tully  to  you.  You  had  to  come !" 

"Very  clever!"  said  Mr.  Merriwether,  with  a 
thoughtful  absence  of  enthusiasm. 

"Therefore,"  continued  the  man  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  the  other's  interpolation,  "your  son,  being  full 

312 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

of  the  thought  of  love  and,  even  worse,  of  marrying 
the  mate  that  Fate  selected  for  him  five  million 
years  ago,  is  now  ready  to  marry  any  girl  that  smells 
of  sweet  peas.  We  thought  that,  instead  of  vulgarly 
extracting  the  million  from  you  by  torture  or  threats, 
we  would  place  you  in  our  debt  by  perpetuating  the 
Merriwether  dynasty.  Hence  the  preparation  of 
eight  very  nice  girls — three  of  them  in  your  own  set, 
three  others  children  of  people  you  know,  and  the 
remaining  two  equally  desirable  but  less  historical, 
as  it  were." 

"Who  are  they?"  If  Mr.  Merriwether  was  to  pay 
a  million  he  might  as  well  see  the  label. 

"Cynthia,  Agnes,  and  Isabel,  daughters  respec 
tively  of  Gordon  Hammersly,  William  Murray,  and 
Vanderpoel  Woodford.  Any  objections?" 

"No;  but  you  can't—" 

"Yes,  I  can.  Also,  Louise  Emlen,  daughter  of 
Marbury  Emlen,  the  lawyer — " 

"He's  a  crook!"  interrupted  Mr.  Merriwether. 

"He  doubtless  interfered  with  one  of  your  deals; 
I  see  you  respect  him.  He's  a  crank,  but  she  is  a 
brick.  And  a  Miss  Lythgoe,  daughter  of  Professor 
Lythgoe,  of  Columbia,  the  most  beautiful  girl  in 
New  York.  Ramona  Ogden;  her  father  is  Dr. 
Ogden,  the  lung  specialist;  her  mother  was  a  Jewess. 
The  remaining  two  are  of  humble  birth.  But  all  of 
them  are  healthy  and  beautiful,  plenty  of  honesty, 
brains,  and,  above  all,  imagination.  Any  one  of 
them  will  not  only  make  Tom  happy,  but  will  make 
him  a  worthy  successor  of  a  great  man.  And  such 
grandchildren  as  they  will  give  you!  I  envy  you!" 

The  man  spoke  with  such  fervent  sincerity  that 
E.  H.  Merriwether  merely  said: 
21  313 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"It  is  a  risky  business,  even  though  the  chances 
appear  to  be— 

"That's  why  we  ask  one  million  dollars — because 
we  have  eliminated  the  risk.  Very  cheap.  Are  you 
ready?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Merriwether,  grimly. 

"Then,  will  you  kindly—" 

' '  Yes ;  I  will  kindly  tell  you  that  you  are  a  damned 
fool!  You've  wasted  my  time.  I'm  going  to  my 
office,  and  if  I  don't  have  you  put  in  jail  it  will  be 
because  I  don't  want  the  publicity.  But  don't  push 
me  too  far  or  I'll  do  it  anyhow!"  And  Mr.  E.  H. 
Merriwether  rose. 

"Sit  down!"  said  the  man,  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"Go  to  hell!"  snarled  the  czar  of  the  Pacific  & 
Southwestern,  and  looked  at  the  man  with  the  eyes 
that  Sam  Sharpe  once  said  reminded  him  of  a  mink's 
when  it  kills  for  the  sheer  love  of  killing. 

For  all  reply  the  man  clapped  his  hands  sharply 
twice.  Four  men — the  over-intelligent-looking  foot 
men — came  from  behind  the  heavy  plush  portieres. 
Also,  the  ascetic-looking  man  who  had  held  the  glass 
of  acid  in  the  taxicab  and  had  brought  Tom  into 
the  house  the  first  time.  The  ascetic-looking  man 
held  a  cornet  to  his  lips,  and  his  lungs  were  filled 
with  still  unblown  blasts. 

* 'Three  weeks  ago,  Mr.  Merriwether,"  explained 
the  mysterious  master  of  the  house,  "this  worthy 
artist  began  to  practise  on  his  beautiful  instrument 
at  exactly  this  time  every  morning.  This  was  in 
anticipation  of  the  morning  when  you  should  be 
here — the  idea  being  to  drown  your  cries.  The 
neighbors  have  complained  and  I  have  promised  to 
play  pianissimo;  but  a  few  loud  blasts,  which  will 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

do  the  trick,  will  be  forgiven.  Attention  to  details, 
Mr.  Merriwether!  Ready!" 

The  cornetist  inflated  his  lungs  and  held  the  cornet 
to  his  lips  in  readiness.  The  footmen  seized  Mr.  Mer 
riwether  by  the  arms  and  legs,  one  man  to  each  limb. 

"Doctor!"  called  the  master. 

A  sixth  man  came  from  behind  the  portieres.  He 
had  some  tin  cans  in  his  hand — plainly  labeled  ether 
— and  also  a  cylinder  of  compressed  laughing-gas 
and  an  inhaler. 

"Expert!  Anesthetics!"  said  the  man,  curtly,  to 
Mr.  Merriwether.  "We  propose  to  take  you  out  of 
this  house  if  we  kidnap  you.  If  we  decide  to  kill 
you  we  have  arranged  to  do  it  right  here  at  home. 
I  think  we'll  kidnap  you.  A  week  or  two  will  make 
you  amenable  to  reason.  We  realize,  of  course,  that 
every  day  you  spend  under  our  hospitable  roof  will 
make  it  a  little  bit  more  difficult  to  get  the  million 
into  our  clutches.  Would  you  like  to  know  how  we 
propose  to  kidnap  you  and  get  away  with  it?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether,  with  a 
pleasant  smile. 

"Tell  our  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  to  come  in," 
said  the  man  to  the  cornetist,  who  thereupon  disap 
peared  and  presently  returned,  followed  by  a  man 
made  up  to  resemble  the  great  financier. 

The  task  was  rendered  easy  by  the  famous  flat- 
brimmed  hat,  with  the  crown  like  a  truncated  cone, 
so  familiar  to  newspaper-readers  through  the  car 
toonists'  efforts.  The  resemblance  was  not  striking 
enough  to  deceive  at  close  range,  but  it  probably 
would  work  at  a  distance. 

"Walk  like  him!"  commanded  the  master. 

The  fake  Mr.  Merriwether  walked  up  and  down 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

the  room  with  the  curious  swaggering,  jockey-like 
jauntiness  of  the  little  railroad  man.  From  time  to 
time  he  snapped  his  fingers  impatiently  in  the  same 
characteristic  way  Mr.  E.  H.  Merri wether  almost 
always  used  when  giving  an  order  to  subordinates. 

"That  will  do!"  said  the  man,  with  a  broad  grin 
at  the  impersonator  of  the  little  financial  giant. 
The  double  left  the  room — still  walking  d  la  E.  H.  M. 

"I  have  had  that  man — an  actor  of  about  your 
build  with  a  gift  of  mimicry — coached  for  weeks  to 
imitate  you.  We  told  him  it  was  a  joke  and  guar 
anteed  him  an  appearance  before  the  most  select 
audience  in  New  York  at  one  of  Mrs.  Garrettson's 
world-famous  functions.  We  pledged  him  to  a 
secrecy  so  natural,  under  the  circumstances,  as  to 
rouse  no  suspicions.  A  few  minutes  ago  we  sent  a 
footman  to  tell  your  chauffeur  to  go  away  and  return 
at  one.  He  wouldn't  do  it.  The  footman  said  the 
boss  said  so.  Your  man  retorted  that  he  took  orders 
from  only  the  boss  himself — especially  when  counter 
manding  previous  orders. 

"So  our  Mr.  Merriwether  went  out  to  the  front 
door,  yelled  'One!'  in  your  voice,  and  snapped  his 
finger  at  the  intelligent  chauffeur,  who  thereupon 
beat  it.  But  the  sleuth  remains.  It  makes  us  laugh ! 
But,  after  all,  since  we  have  provided  for  him,  it 
would  be  a  pity  not  to  go  through  the  entire  program. 
Does  this  bore  you?" 

"Must  I  tell  the  truth?"  asked  Mr.  Merriwether, 
anxiously. 

"Yes." 

"I  can  stand  more."  In  point  of  fact,  Mr.  Mem- 
wether  was  sure  the  situation  was  serious  for  him. 
That  is  why  he  joked  about  it. 

316 


CHEAP   AT   A   MILLION 

"Over  six  months  ago  we  opened  an  antique-shop 
on  Fourth  Avenue.  We  had  the  usual  truck.  Also 
we  have  had  this  antique-dealer — who  is  your  humble 
servant — go  from  house  to  house  on  the  Avenue  offer 
ing  to  buy  or  exchange  those  antiques  of  which 
people  have  grown  tired.  We  even  asked  you.  We 
have  offered  such  good  prices  and  such  excellent 
swaps  that  we  have  taken  antiques  from  some  of  the 
wealthiest  houses  on  the  Avenue.  Also  we  have 
made  a  practice  of  importing  antiques  from  Europe, 
which  we  auction  off  every  two  weeks.  The  money 
we  get  we  deposit  in  various  banks,  and  then  we 
buy  bills  on  Paris.  The  banks  now  know  us.  Re 
member  that — it  is  important.  Well,  we  also  have 
an  exact  copy  of  your  motor,  even  to  the  initials 
in  the  door  panels.  Pretty  soon  we  send  for  our 
Merriwether  motor  and  our  E.  H.  Merriwether 
emerges  from  this  house  and  gets  into  his  car 
and  off  he  goes — and  the  watching  sleuth  with 
him." 

"But  if  there  should  be  two,  and  one  stay?" 
"Then  number  two  will  see  not  long  afterward 
an  elaborately  carved  Gothic  chest  taken  from  here 
into  the  antique-dealer's  wagon — a  wagon  now 
known  to  the  traffic  squad.  We  carry  you  away  and 
lock  you  in  a  small  sound-proof  room,  to  get  to 
which  people  would  have  to  move  out  of  the  way 
a  lot  of  heavy  pieces  of  furniture.  There  is  no 
question  of  our  ability  to  kidnap  you  and  to  keep 
you  a  prisoner.  I  tell  you  we  have  paid  attention 
to  details  persistently  and  intelligently.  Meantime 
what  does  Sam  Sharpe  do  to  the  stock-market? 
And  Northrup  Ashe?  How  much  will  a  month's 
absence  from  your  office  cost  you?" 

317 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"Not  half  as  much  as  it  will  cost  you  when  I  get 
out." 

"And  if  you  don't  get  out?" 

For  reply  Mr.  E.  H.  Merri wether  grinned  broadly. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Merriwether" — the  man  spoke 
very  seriously  now — "we  had  not  really  expected 
such  unintelligent  skepticism  from  you;  but,  as  we 
prepared  for  everything,  we,  of  course,  prepared 
for  even  crass  stupidity  on  your  part.  In  demon 
strating  our  power  to  do  what  I  say  some  painful 
moments  will  be  your  portion.  This  I  regret  more 
than  I  can  say.  Just  now  our  problem  is  to  prove 
our  complete  physical  control  of  you  and  also  our 
utter  indifference  to  your  feelings.  I  am  going  to 
do  what  will  make  you  hate  me  to  the  murder  point. 
In  deliberately  making  a  violent  enemy  of  a  man 
like  you  we  pay  ourselves  the  compliment  of  think 
ing  ourselves  absolutely  fearless.  I  propose  to  have 
you  spanked — to  whip  you  as  if  you  were  a  bad 
little  boy.  We  shall  at  first  use  a  shingle  on  you — 
undraped.  You  may  begin  when  ready,  James." 

"Sir,"  said  one  of  the  footmen,  very  respectfully, 
to  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether,  "will  you  kindly  take  off 
your  coat  and  waistcoat,  preliminary  to  the  removal 
of  your  trousers?" 

Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  tried  to  smile,  but  desisted 
when  he  saw  that  the  men's  faces  had  taken  on  a 
grim  look — as  if  they  knew  that  after  the  whipping 
it  would  be  a  fight  to  the  death.  They  somehow 
conveyed  an  impression  that,  though  they  would  not 
stop  at  murder,  they  nevertheless  appreciated  the 
gravity  of  the  offense. 

"We  know,"  said  the  master,  solemnly,  "that  for 
every  blister  we  raise  you  will  gladly  spend  a  million 

318 


CHEAP    AT   A    MILLION 

to  clap  us  into  jail.     Do  you  really  wish  to  be 
spanked  and  to  hate  us  for  it  for  the  rest  of  your  life  ?" 
"No." 

"The  alternative  is  the  million — or  death.'* 
"You  can't  kill  me  and  get  away  with  it." 
"Oh  yes — even  easier  than  kidnapping.  I'll  show 
you  how  we'll  do  it."  He  rose  and  took  from  one  of 
the  drawers  of  the  table  a  small,  morocco-covered 
medicine-case,  opened  it,  and  showed  Mr.  Mem- 
wether  a  lot  of  small  tubes  tightly  stoppered.  "Cul 
tures!"  explained  the  man  —  "typhoid;  bubonic 
plague;  anthrax;  Bacillus  mallei — that's  glanders — • 
meningitis;  Asiatic  cholera;  and  others.  This,  for 
instance — number  thirteen — is  the  virus  of  tetanus. 
Inoculation  with  an  ordinary  culture  would  take 
days;  but  with  this  virus  it  will  take  hours.  What 
a  wonderful  thing  science  is!  You  know  what  te 
tanus  is?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Merri wether,  calmly,  "lock 
jaw." 

"Exactly!  Well,  this  will  lock  your  jaws,  and  all 
your  millions  won't  be  able  to  pry  them  open  for  you, 
and  all  the  antitoxin  injections  won't  help  you.  You 
will  have  your  consciousness  almost  to  the  last — and 
you  will  not  make  yourself  understood.  The  risus 
sardonicus,  which  is  a  most  unpleasant  sort  of  grin 
resulting  from  your  inability  to  smile  naturally,  will 
linger  in  the  memory  of  Tom  to  his  death.  You 
really  ought  to  have  a  moving-picture  film  of  your 
last  hours  taken  as  a  warning  to  those  stupid  mil 
lionaires  whose  plunder  we  would  recover.  And, 
of  course,  I  have  here  seven  poisons,  of  which  prussic 
acid  is  the  mildest  and  slowest.  Will  you  please 
assume  the  fact  of  your  death?" 

319 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"I'll  do  that  much  to  please  you,"  said  Mr.  Mer- 
riwether.  He  still  believed  that  murder  would  not 
be  profitable  to  these  men  and  hence  did  not  believe 
they  would  go  that  far. 

"Would  you  like  to  know  how  we  propose  to  dis 
pose  of  the  body?" 

"I  might  as  well  see  everything,"  he  answered,  in 
a  resigned  tone  of  voice.  The  man  looked  at  him 
admiringly,  and  said: 

"Come  on!" 

They  led  the  great  E.  H.  Merriwether  to  the  cellar. 
There  he  saw  that  the  furnace  coal  had  been  taken 
out  of  its  bin  and  put  in  the  adjoining  compartment. 
The  plank  floor  had  been  taken  up,  and  what  looked 
like  a  short  trench — or  a  grave — had  been  dug.  Out 
side  stood  a  pile  of  crushed  stone,  some  bags  of 
cement,  some  bundles  of  steel  rods,  a  section  of  five- 
inch  iron  soilpipe  with  a  mushroom-head  trap  at  one 
end,  and  concrete- workers'  tools. 

"After  we  make  absolutely  sure  that  you  are  dead 
we  throw  a  lot  of  soft  mortar  into  the  grave,  deposit 
the  corpse,  and  then  pour  in  more  cement — so  that 
you  will  be  completely  surrounded  by  it.  It  will 
make  it  very  difficult  indeed  to  recognize  you  when 
they  try  to  chip  away  the  hard  cement — if  they  ever 
try!  Then  we  fill  the  grave  up  to  the  top  with  con 
crete,  using  plenty  of  steel  rods — not  to  re-enforce 
the  concrete  at  all,  but  to  make  it  very  hard  digging 
with  a  pick. 

"We  also  stick  the  soilpipe  into  the — er — cavity 
in  order  to  account  for  the  disturbed  pavement.  In 
telligent  searchers — your  son  and  his  detectives — 
will  assume  it  is  plumbing — and  seek  no  further. 
We  replace  the  plank  flooring  in  the  bin  and  fill  it 

320 


CHEAP    AT    A    MILLION 

up  with  coal,  thereby  further  obliterating  all  traces 
of  your  grave. 

"We  have  provided  for  that  part,  you  see.  Why, 
my  dear  Mr.  Merriwether,  what  we  really  do  to  you 
is  confer  immortality  on  you.  We  elevate  you  to 
the  rank  of  one  of  the  mysteries.  Charlie  Ross  and 
E.  H.  Merriwether!  Just  assume  that  we'll  do  what 
I  say.  Very  well!  Now,  visualize  the  search  made 
for  you.  Endow  your  people  with  superhuman  in 
genuity.  Useless!" 

The  man  waved  a  hand  toward  Mr.  Merriwether; 
but  Mr.  Merriwether  said: 

"You  assume  that  the  search  will  be  exclusively 
for  me — but  they  will  also  search  for  you!" 

"My  dear  sir,  that  is  unkind  of  you!"  The  man 
spoke  reproachfully.  "We  know  that  when  we  go 
into  the  plunder-recovery  business  we  must  guard 
against  the  chief  contributory  cause  of  the  vast  ma 
jority  of  all  business  failures,  according  to  the  sta 
tistics  of  Dun  and  Bradstreet — to  wit,  insufficient 
capital.  Murderers  are  caught  when  their  faces  and 
habits  and  families  are  known.  Usually  their  lack 
of  means  forces  them  to  betray  themselves.  But  no 
body  knows  how  the  men  who  will  kill  E.  H.  Merri 
wether  look,  simply  because  we  have  enough  money 
to  go  anywhere.  We  will  become  tourists — like 
thousands  of  others.  Some  of  us  will  stay  in  New 
York;  others  will  go  on  round-the-world  tours. 
See  this?" 

The  man  pulled  from  his  pocket  some  packages  of 
well-worn  bills,  with  the  bank-wrappers  round  them, 
though  a  finger  hid  the  bank  name.  Also  the  man 
showed  to  Mr.  Merriwether  several  books  of  trav 
elers'  checks  of  the  fifty-dollar  denomination — the 

321 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

specimen  signature  also  being  covered  by  the  man's 
finger. 

"Enough  for  all,"  said  the  man.  "  Kindly  oblige 
me  by  thinking  of  what  you  would  do  in  my  place; 
and,  in  all  frankness,  acknowledge  that  nothing 
would  be  easier  than  to  get  away.  Ordinary  crime  is 
so  largely  accidental  that  the  average  criminal  is  at 
the  mercy  of  even  the  unintelligent  police.  Profes 
sionals  do  the  same  thing  over  and  over  and  acquire 
telltale  mannerisms.  Also,  they  lack  culture,  and 
find  the  class  attraction  too  strong  to  resist — besides 
always  being  hard  up  and  therefore  defenseless. 
Whenever  you  find  a  crook  who  is  thrifty,  you  will 
find  him  always  out  of  jail — like  any  other  business 
man  of  equal  thrift.  We  have  gone  about  this  case 
systematically.  We  wanted  your  million — but,  more, 
we  wanted  the  sport  of  taking  it  from  a  man  who 
had  no  moral  right  to  the  particular  million  we  de 
sired.  If  you  had  been  a  really  conscienceless  fin 
ancier  we'd  have  made  it  five  millions;  in  fact, 
it  is  because  we  are  not  sure  that  even  this  million 
is  tainted  that  we  ask  you  to  pay  it  to  us  for 
giving  you  a  fine  daughter-in-law.  Shall  we  go 
up-stairs?" 

The  master  of  the  house  led  the  way  up-stairs  and 
Mr.  E.  H.  Merri wether,  escorted  by  the  stalwart 
footmen  with  the  intelligent  faces,  followed,  his  own 
intelligent  face  impassive.  That  he  was  thinking 
meant  only  that  he  was  doing  what  he  always  did. 

The  man  sat  down  in  his  chair,  with  his  back  to 
the  stained-glass  window.  He  asked,  pleasantly: 

"What  do  you  say  now,  Mr.  Merri  wether?" 

"I  say,"  the  little  czar  answered,  with  a  frown  of 
impatience,  or  anger,  or  both,  "that  when  you  are 

322 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

tired  of  playing  the  damned  fool  I'd  like  to  return 
to  my  business." 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet  quickly,  his  face  pale  with 
anger.  He  took  a  step  toward  the  financier,  his  fists 
clenched — and  then  suddenly  controlled  himself. 

' '  You  jackass !"  he  said.  '  *  You  idiot !  Have  you  no 
brains  whatever?  Must  I  lash  common  sense  into 
you?  Take  'em  off!"  It  was  a  command  to  the 
footmen. 

"Will  you  disrobe,  sir?"  very  politely  asked  the 
oldest  of  them. 

Mr.  Merriwether,  six  inches  shorter  than  the 
speaker,  and  a  hundred  pounds  lighter,  drew  back 
his  fist,  but  the  four  men  seized  him  and  began  to 
take  his  clothes  off.  Mr.  Merriwether,  recognizing 
the  uselessness  of  resistance  and  the  folly  of  having 
garments  torn  so  far  from  home,  helped  by  unbutton 
ing  here  and  there.  Presently  he  stood  in  puris  nat- 
uralibus.  His  face  was  pale  and  his  jaw  set  tight. 

"Tie  him!"  commanded  the  master. 

They  tied  him  to  the  library  table,  face  down. 

"Music!"  cried  the  man;  whereupon  the  cornetist 
began  to  play  the  Meditation  from  "Thais"  softly, 
but  obviously  ready  to  play  fortissimo  at  a  signal 
from  the  chief. 

"I  am  going  to  lick  you  with  a  whip;  and,  for 
every  lash  I  give  you,  you  will  have  to  pay  me  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars  in  addition  to  the  original 
million.  Theatrical,  is  it?"  And  his  voice  was 
hoarse  with  anger.  "Yes?  Well,  look  at  this  melo 
dramatic  whip.  Your  tragedy  will  be  my  comedy, 
you jackass!" 

He  showed  to  Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  a  quirt — a 
veritable  miniature  blacksnake  of  plaited  leather. 

323 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"You  can  stand  twenty;  that  will  make  three 
million  in  all.  I'll  draw  blood  after  the  fifth.  I'll 
stop  when  you've  got  enough.  Remember  the 
price!" 

He  snapped  the  whip  viciously  and  walked  round 
the  table  until  he  stood  behind  Mr.  Merriwether. 
He  lifted  his  arm  and  then  the  great  Merriwether, 
autocrat  of  fifteen  thousand  miles  of  railroad,  iron- 
nerved,  fearless,  imaginative,  and  intelligent,  yelled: 

"Wait!" 

"The  million?" 

"Yes!" 

"Help  him!"  said  the  man;  and  the  intelligent- 
looking  footmen  respectfully  served  as  valets. 

"I  don't  believe  you  would  kill  me — but  I  never 
liked  spankings."  Mr.  Merriwether  spoke  jocularly 
— almost ! 

The  man  confronted  Mr.  Merriwether  and  said, 
very  seriously: 

"Mr.  Merriwether,  we  should  certainly  have  killed 
you  if  you  had  persisted  in  your  stubbornness  to  the 
end.  We  knew  we  had  to  convince  you." 

The  man  looked  inquiringly  at  the  financier  to  see 
whether  any  doubt  remained;  but  Mr.  Merriwether 
asked,  quizzically: 

"Honest,  now,  would  you — " 

"We  would!"  interrupted  the  man,  looking  straight 
into  Mr.  Merriwether's  eyes.  And  what  Mr.  Merri 
wether  saw  there  made  him  ask : 

"How  will  you  have  the  million?" 

"In  cash.  I'm  glad  you  will  make  the  payment. 
But  really,  sir,  I  wish  to  impress  on  you  that  Tom  is 
ripe  to  be  taken  for  better — or  for  worse." 

Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether  looked  long  and  earnestly 

324 


CHEAP   AT    A    MILLION 

into  the  eyes  of  the  mysterious  man  who  was  despoil 
ing  him  of  a  million  dollars.  It  began  to  seep  into 
his  understanding  that  if  Tom  could  be  married  to 
a  nice  girl  the  resulting  peace  of  mind  would  indeed 
be  cheap  at  a  million. 

"Now,  if  you  please,"  pursued  the  man,  pleas 
antly,  ''telephone  to  McWayne  that  you  wish  him 
to  come  here  with  certified  checks  on  your  different 
banks,  aggregating  one  million  dollars,  made  payable 
to  Michael  P.  Mahaffy." 

Mr.  Merriwether  started.  The  name  was  that  of 
the  world-famous  political  Boss  of  New  York  City. 
Explanations  as  to  the  million  might  be  embarrassing 
to  any  political  boss ;  but  for  a  million  dollars  in  cash 
any  political  boss  would  be  glad  to  explain — or  even 
not  to  explain. 

"From  this  house  Mr.  McWayne  will  go  to  the 
banks,  accompanied  by  the  studious  gentleman  who 
had  the  honor  of  holding  your  left  leg.  You  will  in 
dorse  each  check  by  writing  'indorsement  correct' 
and  signing  your  name.  McWayne  will  go  with  our 
Mr.  Michael  P.  Mahaffy  and  get  the  money  in  fives, 
tens,  and  twenties,  in  handy  wads — old  bills  pre 
ferred  and  so  requested  from  the  paying  tellers,  who 
will  intelligently  understand  that  Mr.  Mahaffy  is  not 
signing  his  name  in  person,  so  he  can  swear  in  any 
court  of  justice  that  he  never  saw  the  checks.  Ask 
ing  for  old  bills  is  to  make  them  impossible  to  trace. 
This  will  also  allay  the  banks'  suspicions.  The  worst 
that  can  happen  will  be  that  a  few  tellers  will  wonder 
what  Mr.  Merriwether  has  to  do  with  city  politics 
that  he  needs  Mahaffy 's  aid." 

"I  see!'1  said  Mr.  Merriwether,  thoughtfully. 
Then,  after  a  pause:  "Where  is  the  telephone?" 

325 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

"There!" 

In  plain  sight  and  hearing  of  the  master  of  the 
house  the  master  of  the  Pacific  &  Southwestern 
called  up  his  own  office.  He  spoke  to  McWayne : 

"Make  out  checks  on  all  banks  according  to  my 
balances  in  them,  so  that  the  checks  will  aggregate 
one  million  dollars,  payable  to  Michael  P.  Mahaffy. 

. .  .What?  Yes? .  .  .Have  the  checks  certified Of 

course,  if  there  isn't  enough!. .  .We  shall  want  bills 
that  have  been  used — fives,  tens,  and  twenties . .  .Yes, 
all  cash..  Come  up  to  777  Fifth  Avenue.  You  will 
go  to  the  banks  with  a  man — " 

"With  Mr.  Mahaffy,"  prompted  the  man. 

"With  Mr.  Mahaffy,"  repeated  Mr.  Merriwether. 

"And  tell  Tom  to  have  luncheon  and  wait  for  me," 
again  prompted  the  man. 

"And  tell  Tom  I  can't  go  to  luncheon  with  him, 
but  to  wait  for  me." 

Mr.  Merriwether  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned 
to  the  man,  saying: 

"The  idea  of  using  Mahaffy 's  name — " 

"Rather  good,  isn't  it?"  smiled  the  man.  "Of 
course  you  wondered  how  we  were  going  to  cash  the 
checks,  didn't  you?  Well,  that's  the  way.  The 
bank  officials  will  be  surprised  to  see  the  checks  and 
they  will  watch  McWayne  and  my  man  to  the  last. 
They  will  thus  be  able  to  hear  my  man  say  loudly 
to  the  chauffeur,  'Tammany  Hall,  Charlie1/  Atten 
tion  to  details,  my  dear  sir!" 

"I  still  am  not  quite  convinced  that — " 

"My  dear  Mr.  Merriwether,  there  are  so  many 
ways  of  safely  getting  money  from  you  Wall  Street 
magnates  that  the  only  thing  that  really  protects 
you  is  the  sad  fact  that  the  professional  crooks  are 

326 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

even  more  stupid  than  you.  Men  like  you  are  com 
pelled  to  bet  your  entire  fortune,,  your  very  life,  on 
averages.  The  average  man  is  both  stupid  and 
honest;  so  you  and  your  like  are  fairly  safe  for 
fairly  long  periods  of  time.  Of  course  if  we  had 
been  obliged  to  kill  you  we  should  have  done  so  and 
buried  you,  and  we  should  have  been  wise  enough 
to  utilize  your  death  in  as  many  ways  as  possible 
in  the  stock-market — and  out  of  it.  For  instance, 
I  should  have  instantly  telephoned  to  all  the  men  in 
your  class  and  told  them  we  had  eliminated  you — 
as  an  example — and  to  remember  that  in  case  we 
ever  had  occasion  to  ask  anything  from  them.  We 
should  also  give  them  a  countersign,  so  that  they 
would  be  able  to  recognize  us  when  the  proper  time 
came.  I  can  kidnap  or  permanently  suppress  any 
millionaire  in  New  York,  with  neatness,  despatch, 
and  safety." 

"But  killing  a  well-known  man — "  began  Mr. 
Merriwether. 

"If  Big  Tim  Sullivan  could  be  killed  and  lie  in 
the  Morgue  for  days  unrecognized,  what  chance  do 
relatively  ^-Riknown  people  like  you  great  millionaires 
stand  to  be  found,  once  dead?  A  dead  capitalist, 
remember,  is  no  more  impressive  than  a  dead  street 
car  conductor.  If  I  got  you  into  this  house  on  the 
strength  of  Tom,  as  I  got  Tom  to  come  in  on  the 
strength  of  you,  what  millionaire  would  refuse,  for 
example,  to  go,  in  answer  to  a  telephone  message 
that  his  child  had  been  run  over  and  was  now,  let  us 
say,  at  128  East  Seventy-ninth  Street?  Or  that  his 
wife,  acting  more  or  less  as  if  she  were  intoxicated, 
was  scattering  money  at  the  corner  of  Seventh  Avenue 
and  Twenty-ninth  Street  ?  And  suppose  the  million- 

327 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

aire  is  bound  and  chloroformed,  and  taken  to  the  top 
floor  of  a  tenement  hired  by  a  humpback  with  red 
beard  and  one  leg  shorter  than  the  other — same 
humpback  not  being  really  a  humpback  or  red- 
bearded  or  a  cripple,  but  a  fake,  to  furnish  false 
clues  in  advance — and  this  humpback  has  previously 
given  fire-extinguishing  hand-grenades  to  all  the 
other  tenants,  as  advertisements!  Then  we  have  a 
charge  of  dynamite  inserted  in  the  thoroughly  pre 
pared  corpse  of  the  millionaire — his  face  burned  off  in 
advance — and  he  is  also  soaked  in  inflammable 
material  and  set  on  fire.  And  the  deed  is  done  at 
ii  A.M.;  so  that  all  the  children  will  be  in  school 
and  all  the  adults  awake  and  able  to  get  out.  Find 
you  ?  Bits  of  flesh  and  sympathy  for  the  poor  hump 
back  is  all  the  police  would  find  in  that  tenement. 
Oh, 'sir,  you  were  wise  to  pay — very  wise  indeed!'* 

Mr.  Merriwether  looked  at  the  man  a  long  time. 
He  could  not  deny  that  to  really  desperate  men  such 
deeds  offered  no  particular  difficulty.  The  average 
crook  is  not  dangerous  to  a  millionaire;  but  a  man 
like  this  is  more  than  dangerous.  He  thought 
quickly  and  formed  his  conclusions  accurately. 

"How  are  you  going  to  make  Tom  marry  one  of 
the  girls  whose  names  you  mentioned?"  he  asked,  in 
the  tone  of  voice  one  uses  toward  physicians. 

The  man  smiled  slightly  and  said:  "Oh,  I  am  not 
going  to  do  it.  I  don't  care  whether  he  marries  or 
not.  You  must  do  that.  But  I'll  tell  you  how,  if 
you  wish, — after  McWayne  gets  here.  Just  think 
over  the  affair.  It  will  put  you  in  a  more  intelli 
gently  receptive  frame  of  mind."  And  with  a 
pleasant  smile  the  man  took  a  little  book  bound  in 
green  leather  and  began  to  read. 

328 


CHEAP   AT   A   MILLION 

Mr.  E.  H.  Merriwether,  as  was  his  wont  when 
thinking,  began  at  the  beginning  and  reviewed  the 
entire  affair  quickly  but  carefully.  He  did  this 
again — it  did  not  take  him  long — and  then  he  began 
to  co-ordinate  his  ideas  and  study  the  case.  Within 
ten  minutes  he  had  forgotten  his  animosity.  In 
fifteen  he  felt  respect  for  this  man.  In  twenty  he 
was  thinking  how  helpless  any  one  man  is  against  his 
ten  billion  trillion  natural  foes — microbes,  seismic 
disturbances,  floods,  and  the  chemical  reaction  of 
hostile  brains.  This  man,  whose  very  name  was  un 
known  to  him,  had  vanquished  the  victor — had  looted 
the  tent  of  the  victorious  general ! 

This  was  incredible  when  spoken  in  a  conversa 
tional  tone  of  voice.  Perhaps  this  same  remarkable 
man  might  tell  how  to  make  Tom  choose  a  desirable 
wife.  It  was  worth  while  making  the  experiment. 
It  was  in  the  nature  of  a  gamble  in  which  E.  H. 
Merriwether  stood  to  win  a  happiness  worth  all  the 
money  in  the  world  and  stood  to  lose  nothing ! 

A  knock  at  the  door  roused  him  from  his  reverie. 
One  of  the  footmen  arrived  from  the  threshold. 

"Mr.  McWayne!" 

Mr.  Merriwether's  private  secretary  entered. 
E.  H.  Merriwether  held  out  his  right  hand. 

Mr.  McWayne  took  four  slips  of  paper  and  gave 
them  to  his  chief,  who  quickly  looked  at  them  and 
passed  them  over  to  the  master  of  the  house.  The 
man  looked  at  them,  indorsed  them,  and  handed  a 
pen  to  Mr.  Merriwether.  The  czar  of  the  Pacific  & 
Southwestern  wrote  on  each  of  the  checks: 

Indorsement  correct. 

E.  H.  MERRIWETHER. 
22  329 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

He  returned  the  checks  to  the  man,  who  thereupon 
pushed  a  button  a  number  of  times. 

One  of  the  footmen  with  the  non-menial  faces  ap 
peared  dressed  for  the  street.  He  looked  Irish.  He 
wore  a  big  solitaire  scarf-pin.  His  hat  inclined  to 
one  side  noticeably.  He  carried  a  square  valise  in 
each  hand.  They  looked  as  if  they  had  seen  ser 
vice.  On  each  was  printed,  "  Treasurer  Tammany 
Hall." 

"Go  with  Mr.  McWayne  to  the  banks  and  cash 
the  checks.  Mr.  McWayne  will  identify  you,"  said 
the  master  of  the  house. 

"Yis,  sor!"  said  the  footman. 

The  brogue  was  unnecessary,  but  E.  H.  Merri- 
wether  smiled  slightly.  McWayne  and  the  footman 
in  mufti  left  together. 

"Think  some  more!"  said  the  man  to  E.  H.  Merri- 
wether,  and  resumed  his  reading  of  the  little  green- 
leather  book. 

Mr.  Merriwether  leaned  back  and  thought  some 
more.  To  him  the  million-dollar  loss  was  already 
ancient  history.  The  only  virtue  that  the  Wall 
Street  life  gives  to  a  professional  is  the  ability  to 
take  a  loss  of  money  with  more  or  less  philosophy. 
That  philosophy  is  also  met  on  the  race-track,  and 
among  experts  in  faro  as  well  as  among  real  Chris 
tians. 

McWayne  and  the  man  were  gone  an  hour  and 
eighteen  minutes.  Mr.  Merriwether  had  time  to 
think  of  Tom  and  of  himself  and  of  the  relation  that 
had  existed  between  himself  and  his  son,  and  of  the 
relations  that  would  exist  between  them  in  the  future 
— God  willing. 

"Mr.  McWayne!"  announced  the  servant. 

330 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

The  private  secretary  entered;  also  the  Irishman 
with  the  two  valises. 

' '  Tell  the  others !  At  five  o'clock !"  said  the  master 
of  the  house,  and  the  footman  left  the  room — with  the 
valises ! 

"Mr.  McWayne,  will  you  kindly  wait  in  the  other 
room?"  The  man  rose  and  parted  the  portieres 
for  the  secretary  to  pass  through. 

' '  Certainly, ' '  said  McWayne,'  frowning  politely. 

"Now,  Mr.  Merri wether,"  said  the  man,  "as  I 
told  you,  Tom's  mind  and  soul  are  prepared  for  love. 
The  romantic  vein  in  him  has  been  worked  to  the 
limit.  He  can  be  laughed  out  of  it  very  easily,  for 
he  is  not  entirely  convinced;  but  it  is  too  valuable  a 
frame  of  mind  for  a  really  intelligent  father  to 
destroy.  The  young  ladies,  also,  are  ripe  for  the 
coming  of  the  one  man  in  all  the  world.  They  will 
respond  readily — and,  I  may  add,  respond  with 
relief  if  they  see  he  is  a  man  like  your  son,  against 
whom  nothing  can  be  said.  It  will  clinch  the  affair. 
My  advice  is  for  you  to  call  on  the  young  ladies  I 
have  mentioned  and  judge  for  yourself,  and  then 
you  be  your  own  stage-manager!" 

"Have  you  any  choice  yourself?" 

"You  know  Woodford?" 

"Very  well." 

"And  his  daughter  Isabel?" 

"No." 

"Well,  she  has  the  complementary  qualities.  She 
will,  as  it  were,  complete  Tom.  She  is  bright, 
healthy,  very  handsome,  utterly  unspoiled  by  the 
knowledge  of  her  good  looks — that  is,  she  is  highly 
intelligent.  Her  mind  functionates  quickly  and  is 
regulated  and  made  to  work  safely  by  her  keen  sense 

33i 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

of  humor.  You  will  love  her  for  herself,  as  well  as 
for  Tom's  sake  and  for  Tom's  children's  sake. 
Arrange  two  things  and  you  can  do  it.  One  is  pre 
pare  her  to  meet  Tom.  Tell  her  you  don't  know 
why  you  want  her  to  know  him,  but  you  do.  Tell 
her  you  wanted  this  before  you  ever  saw  her.  And 
tell  her  you  know  she  must  think  you  must  be  going 
crazy — but  will  she  meet  Tom  in  her  father's  home? 
—in  some  room  with  the  lights  turned  out?  She 
will  ask  you  why  you  ask  such  things.  And  you 
will  rub  your  hand  across  your  eyes  and  say,  dazed- 
like:  'I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  Will— will 
you  do  it?'  And  when  you  take  Tom  to  her,  take 
advantage  of  the  dark,  and  open  this  little  bottle 
and  touch  Tom's  lapel  with  this.  It  is  essence  of 
sweet  peas.  He  will  associate  Isabel  with  the  mys 
terious  girl  to  whom  he  took  a  message  in  the  dark, 
and  by  the  same  token  she  will  know  he  is  the  man 
who  destiny  decrees  shall  be  her  husband.  Then 
leave  the  rest  to  nature.  They  won't  struggle. 
They  couldn't  if  they  wished;  but  they  won't  wish 
to  fight.  My  parting  words  to  you  are:  the  man 
who  was  smart  enough  to  get  a  million  dollars  out  of 
you  finds  it  even  easier  to  make  a  young  man  who 
wants  to  love  fall  in  love  in  the  springtime  with  a 
handsome,  healthy  girl  who  wants  to  be  loved. 
You  and  McWayne  will  now  use  one  of  my  prisoner- 
carrying  motors.  This  way,  sir!" 

He  led  the  way  into  the  next  room,  picked  up 
McWayne,  and  escorted  the  financier  and  his  private 
secretary  to  the  curb.  A  neat  little  motor  stood 
there. 

Mr.  Merriwether  climbed  in.  McWayne  followed. 
And  then  the  man  said : 

332 


CHEAP   AT   A    MILLION 

"You  will  find  that  the  doors  cannot  be  opened 
from  the  inside.  The  chauffeur  was  told  this  queer 
feature  was  due  to  the  fact  that  his  master  expects 
to  use  this  car  for  his  two  very  active  and  very 
mischievous  children.  He  will  drive  you  anywhere. 
You  can  arrest  him  if  you  wish ;  but  it  will  be  useless. 
We  have  spent  a  good  many  thousands  of  dollars  in 
accessories  that  will  be  thrown  away  to-day. "  And 
the  man  sighed. 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  we?"  asked  E.  H.  Merri- 
wether,  politely. 

"The  Plunder  Recovery  Syndicate,  which,  having 
completed  its  operations,  will  now  dissolve.  Good 
day,  sir." 

In  the  issue  of  the  World  of  June  gth  two  adver 
tisements  appeared.  One,  under  ' '  Marriages, ' '  read : 

MERRIWETHER-WOODFORD. — On  June  8th,  at  the  Church  of 
St.  Lawrence,  by  the  Rev.  Stephen  Vincent  Rood,  Isabel  Wood- 
ford  to  Thomas  Thorne  Merriwether. 

The  other,  under  "Personals,"  read: 

P.  R.  SYNDICATE, — It  was  cheap  at  a  million! 

E.  H.  M. 

On  June  loth  the  great  railroad  financier  received 
a  typewritten  letter.  It  read: 

In  the  course  of  our  operations,  having  for  an  object  the 
recovery  of  plunder  taken  from  unidentified  individuals  by 
malefactors  of  great  wealth,  it  has  happened  that  we  have 
grown  fond  of  some  of  our  contributors.  We  thus  are  able 
most  sincerely  to  extend  to  you  our  hearty  congratulations. 
It  was  indeed  cheap  at  a  million,  and  we  shall  remember  your 
good  fortune  if  ever  we  need  advice  or  additional  funds.  What 
we  took  from  you  and  from  some  of  your  fellow  New-Yorkers 

333 


THE    PLUNDERERS 

we  propose  to  return  to  the  public  at  large.  Mr.  Amos  F. 
Kidder  will  tell  you  his  suspicions,  if  you  ask  him.  In  return 
you  might  tell  him  that  we  propose  to  capitalize  time.  We 
'shall  make  a  present  of  fifty  years  to  the  world  by  transmuting 
the  recovered  plunder  into  unspent  time.  Don't  forget  that 
we  who  were  the  Plunder  Recoverers  are  now 

THE  TIME  GIVERS. 


THE  END 


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